


Star Trek TOS -- The Adept

by LadyTAnna



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: F/M, Illnesses, Klingon, Love, Pon Farr, Protective Spock, Troubled Past, Vulcan, Vulcan Biology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-06 09:41:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 59,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4216863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTAnna/pseuds/LadyTAnna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an unexpected visitor with a troubled past beams aboard the Enterprise, Spock must discover his capacity for love and deep compassion. Story begins 3 days after the close of "Turnabout Intruder." Rated Mature for adult themes and some violent & sexual content (no graphic depictions or coarse language).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**The Adept**

 

© 2013–2015 by author (AO3 username LadyTAnna). _Star Trek_ and all related marks, logos, and characters are solely owned by CBS Studios Inc. The creation of _The Adept_ was not endorsed by, sponsored by, or affiliated with CBS, Paramount Pictures, or any other _Star Trek_ franchisee. _The Adept_ is a noncommercial work that is presented at no cost to the reader. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 _The Adept_ is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. T’Anna, Baldwin, Lutton, Anniston, Bland, the two board members, Roxat, Tamas, Zeta Lindana, and the Klingons on Opalescia Tau are the author’s creations, as is Opalescia Tau itself.

The events chronicled in _The Adept_ begin three days after the conclusion of “Turnabout Intruder.”

* * *

 

The boatswain’s whistle sounded. “Transporter room to Mr. Spock.”

The ensuing silence puzzled Kirk. Not only was Spock seated less than ten feet away, he also had the keen hearing that was a signature Vulcan trait. Why wasn’t he acknowledging Kyle’s hail?

Kirk turned in his command chair for a closer look, only to discover that his colleague’s fingers were steepled in his homeworld’s traditional gesture of contemplation. This too was uncharacteristic. Spock was hardly ever tense at all, let alone so tense that he felt the need to meditate while on the bridge. And when Spock was tense, Kirk was tense, because havoc was the usual consequence when the science officer’s customary calm was shattered. Certainly he bore watching, albeit from a discreet and safe distance.

Kirk turned to face forward again and looked thoughtfully at the other inhabitants of the starship’s circular bridge. Uhura had her fingers poised on the jewel-like buttons of the communications console, while Sulu and Chekov were dividing their attention between the main viewscreen and the helm and navigation controls. Everything seemed normal, but Kirk feared it wasn’t.

“Transporter room to Mr. Spock. Please acknowledge.”

“Spock here.”

Kirk exhaled.

“An unexpected guest has just beamed aboard, sir. Apparently the lady is a dignitary.”

“Please elaborate, Mr. Kyle.”

 _Why is Kyle hailing Spock rather than me about an official guest? And how did this_ guest _arrive in the first place? We weren’t expecting anyone._ Frowning,Kirk hurried to the science station.

“She identifies herself as the Terran envoy to Vulcan, sir.”

At least that explained the hail.

“She also seems to be having difficulties. Can you assist?”

Spock arched an eyebrow at Kirk, who nodded. The request made sense. If the envoy’s first language was Vulcan, she would be well served by the presence of a native speaker, and if she preferred to converse in English, she would find Spock’s version of it formal but more than serviceable. Further, his service rank was high enough in Starfleet—and his family important enough on Vulcan—to justify his suitability as a representative of the _Enterprise_.

“Affirmative, Mr. Kyle. Please state the nature of her difficulties.”

“She appears to be disoriented and confused, sir.”

“Transporter Chief, let me remind you that most people who beam aboard this vessel have a reasonable expectation of doing so.”

Kirk bit his lip to hide a smile; Sulu and Chekov were grinning openly. _Spock seems to be all right. Perhaps I worry about him too much._ The morning—barring an ion storm of the throwing-everyone-about variety—had been unusually quiet, and even his imperturbable first officer had the right to be perturbed on occasion.

“Our guest may also be experiencing medical distress, sir, although I cannot confirm that fact,” Kyle noted. “As a precaution, I’ve asked Dr. McCoy to join you.”

“Acknowledged, Mr. Kyle. Spock out.”

“Mr. Spock, I’ll check on you in ten minutes.”

“Acknowledged.” Spock rose and left the bridge.

_So much for a quiet morning. Our guest had better brace herself._

* * *

 

Spock reached the semicircular transporter room quickly and was relieved to find that McCoy had preceded him there. Kyle’s decision to enlist his aid had been quite correct: the woman’s face was as pale as parchment, her breathing was labored, and she appeared—in Spock’s estimation, at least—to be fevered. At least someone had thought to provide her with a chair. She sat looking up at McCoy in bewilderment, her hands folded in her lap. She had apparently meant to undertake a journey of some days’ if not weeks’ duration, as evidenced by the presence beside her of two capacious blue-and-gold tapestry bags and one smaller bag in the same pattern, all fastened together expertly.

Spock regarded their unexpected guest more closely. Her appearance gave every indication that she was not only an envoy _to_ Vulcan, but also of Vulcan extraction. He used this phrase advisedly. It was clear to him that neither one of the woman’s parents was fully Vulcan, for his homeworld’s phenotypical imprint upon her was subtle rather than strong. Although their skin tone was identical—cream tinged with light green—the lines of her ears did not form a perpendicular point as his did, but merely offered a suggestion of one. In addition, her features were neither sharp nor square; instead, they were classically elegant and fine-boned in a way that reminded him of Slavic ballerinas from twentieth-century Earth. She could easily have been an Anna Pavlova or a Tamara Karsavina, albeit with a thinner and more oval-shaped face. Tidily upswept hair as black and gleaming as his own added to the balletic impression; unlike him, she had eschewed their homeworld’s common practice of cutting it squarely across the forehead and short everywhere else. Further observation told Spock that the two of them were very much of an age—both in the Vulcan equivalent of their late thirties—and that she was both shorter and slighter than he. _Fascinating. Here is a woman of unconventional beauty. Does she possess human blood as well as Vulcan? Is it possible that—_

Spock recalled himself to the present with an effort. Nonessential questions would have to wait until their visitor had been medically examined and stabilized. In the meantime, it was best that he not inconvenience either doctor or patient. He therefore stood guard at a respectful distance, clasping his hands behind his back as was his wont.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” McCoy asked.

“No, I . . . please, what happened? Where am I?” Her English was Terran, her voice low and melodic.

 _Admirable,_ Spock thought. Even as she experienced acute physical distress and almost certainly perceived herself to be in danger, she nonetheless remained perfectly polite. Further, her voice was quite low, so low as to be arresting, even beautiful. As were her eyes, her hands—but this was neither the time nor the place for illogical digressions.

“You’re aboard the U.S.S. _Enterprise_ , ma’am. I’m Dr. Leonard McCoy, the chief surgeon. This is Mr. Spock, our first officer. Let’s get you to Sickbay. We’ll fix you up.”

“Thank you, Doctor. And please forgive me, gentlemen; I seem to have beamed aboard . . . your vessel without . . . asking your permission to do so.”

Spock looked quizzically from the woman to McCoy. The doctor shrugged.

“I was beamed here just now from Terra—that is, from Earth,” their visitor explained. “I was last in line to board . . . a shuttlecraft. I was waiting on the walkway outside it with my belongings. I sensed a man approaching me . . . rather too closely . . . from behind. I felt an electric shock and a bolt of heat. The charge must have activated my communicator also and . . . input random coordinates, because I found myself here after that. I only wish . . . that I had seen the face . . . of my assailant . . . I should very much like . . . to have identified him.” She made an enormous effort to steady her breathing. ”I greatly fear that no one could do so . . . as I was last in line.”

Spock found this recital remarkable for two reasons. First, their guest appeared to have arrived by means of a sub-quantum transporter; apparently Emory Erickson—or someone under his tutelage—had developed the technology after all, albeit without regard for medical considerations. Consequently, their visitor had not required a starship or even a shuttlecraft to traverse vast distances across galaxies; instead, she had arrived instantaneously. In addition, her account had been repetitive but cogent; her composure was more than admirable under the present circumstances. If Spock required additional proof of her Vulcan ancestry, here was that proof.

“Please forgive me, gentlemen.” She smiled faintly. “It would seem that I have the advantage . . . of you both. I am called T’Anna, envoy to Vulcan, homeworld Vulcan.”

“Greetings, Envoy,” said Spock. _Homeworld Vulcan, lineage also Vulcan, parents human?_ “As you may have surmised, we are compatriots; my homeworld is also Vulcan.”

The envoy inclined her head in acknowledgment.

“It’s our pleasure to have you aboard, ma’am,” McCoy assured her. “What’s that in your hand?”

 _That_ was a large vellum document bearing two intricate diplomatic seals. One of them was so familiar to Spock that he would have recognized it by touch with his eyes closed.

“This document contains my diplomatic identification and correspondence. You have my permission . . . to examine and verify . . . the identification codes as protocol requires. Be advised that part of the dossier is sealed, also as per protocol, and that only I . . . am permitted . . . to break that seal.”

“Acknowledged, Envoy. May I?”

“Certainly, Mr. Spock.”

Spock took the document from her and handed it to Kyle. “Please confirm the accuracy of the identification codes in this documentation via our standard verification procedure, Lieutenant.”

There was good and sufficient reason to initiate this process in the transporter room. Visitors to a Federation starship could gain access to sensitive information quite easily, and they could make use of that information for good or ill. It was therefore imperative that their credentials be verified posthaste. If the envoy was not who she claimed to be, Kyle could beam her back to her point of origin immediately. Likewise, if her dossier was legitimate, she could be welcomed aboard just as quickly.

Spock looked on as the transporter chief activated the scanner keyboard. Kyle’s fingers flew nimbly over the keys, but even accounting for the transporter chief’s impressive typing speed, the process would require several minutes to complete. Seeing Kyle thus occupied, Spock was free to return his attention to the envoy who had arrived under such mysterious circumstances. At present, she was being scanned.

“Let’s find out what we’re dealing with and get you to Sickbay,” McCoy said as his tricorder hummed. “Short-term neurologic and respiratory disturbances due to medium-voltage electric shock. Moderate to severe dehydration. Fever and biochemical imbalances consistent with—” He snapped his mouth shut.

_You did not complete that thought, Doctor. And I believe I know why._

“Sorry, Kyle. Need the microphone,” McCoy said. The transporter chief paused in his typing just long enough to hand it over. “Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome, sir.” Kyle’s fingers lightly executed another arpeggio of keystrokes.

McCoy transmitted: “Transporter room to Sickbay. Trans—”

“Sickbay,” Nurse Chapel replied.

Spock closed his eyes briefly.

“Bring the respirator and an oxygen tank to the transporter room on the double,” said McCoy. “Patient is presenting with respiratory distress, dizziness, fever, dehydration, biochemical imbalances. Tell you what, better bring the whole medikit while you’re at it.”

“Will do, Doctor.”

“Bring the gurney too. We can’t have her falling and getting a concussion on top of everything else.”

“On my way.”

The envoy straightened in her chair. “There is no need for a gurney,” she protested mildly. “I believe I am . . . somewhat recovered.” But her ragged breathing belied her assertion.

“Just like Spock,” McCoy murmured to himself. “I think I’m in trouble.”

“Pardon?”

“It is of no consequence, Envoy,” Spock interposed. “Do not trouble yourself. The doctor and I often . . . disagree.”

At which she smiled.

 _You intrigue me,_ Spock thought.

“Ma’am, are you able to stand up without holding on to something?”

“Slowly but surely, Doctor,” she replied.

Spock lifted an eyebrow.

“It’s a joke, Mr. Spock,” explained McCoy. “Well, an idiom, really. Slowly but surely, like a turtle getting ahead of a rabbit in a race—oh, never mind!” And to the envoy: “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but we _will_ need to put you in the gurney. No, it’s no trouble,” he said as she began another protest. “We’d better not try to walk you down. We wouldn’t want you to fall.” He turned back to Spock, saying in an undertone, “My patient, Spock. Your guest.”

“Acknowledged.”

Kyle concluded the elaborate verification sequence, looked up at Spock, and proffered the dossier. “All identification codes have been confirmed valid, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kyle.” Spock took the document from the transporter chief’s hands and returned it to the envoy. She thanked him quietly, placed the dossier in the smallest of her blue-and-gold bags, and plaited her hands in her lap.

Nurse Chapel arrived with the gurney. McCoy looked a question at Spock, who took the envoy’s arm, flashed the doctor a glance, and nodded at him to follow suit. McCoy took her other arm, and both men helped her rise from the chair and settle herself in the gurney.

“Gentlemen,” she protested a third time, with an air of mild embarrassment and milder reproof, “surely your solicitude is . . . excessive . . .” But her labored breathing belied her assertion once again.

Spock searched her face, concerned. She returned his gaze long and steadily as Nurse Chapel secured her in the gurney, connected the oxygen tank to the portable respirator, and applied the mask.

“Sir,” Kyle said quietly.

Spock raised an eyebrow. In response, Kyle handed him the envoy’s luggage.

“Thank you, Transporter Chief. Your efficiency today has been admirable, for which you are to be commended.”

“Thank you very much indeed, sir.”

Spock acknowledged Kyle with a nod and left the transporter room, frowning. _First the hail and now the luggage_. _Something is not right with me._

He knew precisely what it was. He had known for some hours.

* * *

 

In Sickbay, Spock and McCoy lifted T’Anna onto the examination table, Nurse Chapel having been dismissed after completing the transport.

“First things first, ma’am—you’re dehydrated. Let’s get you something to drink.” McCoy made for the water dispenser.

“Doctor,” the envoy said, “I fear that—”

But he was halfway across the room. At the water dispenser, he pushed the button—to no avail, Spock realized immediately, because no water was flowing. He heard McCoy grumbling, “What do you mean, empty? I’m a doctor, not a divining rod!”

At which T’Anna smiled.

 _You intrigue me_ , Spock thought again.

McCoy departed, presently returning with a cup of water for T’Anna. She closed her eyes, breathing raggedly as her face paled and perspiration beaded on her forehead. Quickly, the doctor opened a storage cabinet, retrieved a basin, and set it within reach. But she turned away from it, swallowing visibly. Several shaking breaths restored some of the color to her face.

“Please forgive my weakness, gentlemen,” she said presently. “When I am under extreme physical stress, as I have been today, I tend to become rather . . . indisposed.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Envoy,” Spock replied. “Do not trouble yourself.”

“Thank you, Mr. Spock. You are very kind.”

“Think nothing of it, Envoy. Please.”

“I think very highly of kindness,” she said softly, “and I thank you for yours.”

Spock nodded. He couldn’t find his voice.

McCoy turned to the instrument shelf and frowned. “Blast it, where are those rehydration hypos? I had three of them! We’ll need them all, and it looks like that young fool Harrison’s been going walkabout with them again. He ought to know better—he’s worked here long enough! Excuse me a minute, ma’am. Sorry about this.” He crossed to the extreme end of the large room. Spock, standing beside the envoy as she lay on the examination table, heard the doctor rummaging through storage drawers and muttering to himself. “First leaving the biopsy lab for no good reason and now this! Where in blazes did he put those hypos?”

“Mr. Spock,” said T’Anna quietly.

He turned toward her, arching an eyebrow.

“Would you think it forward of me if I asked you to sit down?” She gestured to an adjacent chair.

“Not in the least, Envoy.” He complied.

“Thank you, Mr. Spock.”

He looked up at her. The relief in her eyes informed him that her request had signaled not an arbitrary preference, but an instinctive response to a perceived threat. _Who or what is it that she fears?_

“Please forgive me, Mr. Spock.”

“Once more, Envoy, there is nothing to forgive.”

McCoy returned with all three hypos. He crossed to T’Anna and administered them efficiently. The envoy’s color improved almost at once. One tricorder pass later, McCoy said, “Ma’am, you’ll be glad to know the effects of the electric shock are wearing off nicely. And your other tests showed clear—except for one anomalous result.”

T’Anna waited.

“Excuse me just a second, ma’am. Mr. Spock, would you mind stepping out for five minutes or so?”

“Not at all, Doctor. I shall return in precisely five minutes.” Spock rose, nodded to them, and departed. He paced the long corridor that led away from Sickbay in order to maintain a courteous distance from the proceedings, even as he realized that McCoy’s attempt at delicacy had backfired. For the doctor’s request, when taken in conjunction with T’Anna’s tricorder readings, left no doubt in Spock’s mind that the envoy was experiencing _pon farr_ symptoms, just as he himself was.

He returned to find McCoy and the envoy concluding their conference. He reseated himself unobtrusively at T’Anna’s side. “That’s about all I can suggest for now, ma’am,” McCoy was telling her. “I wish M’Benga were here—he’s on extended leave right now. He was trained on Vulcan, and he could tell you more than I can. But I’m sure he’d agree with me that you’re going to need a lot of rest—both physically and mentally. You’re more than welcome to use our meditation room if you care to.”

Spock lifted a guileless eyebrow at McCoy, who promptly rounded on him. “Mr. Spock, if you so much as _mention_ to Jim what I said about the meditation room, I’ll deny it flat out and call you a liar besides. I wouldn’t want him to think I was turning into a Vulcan.”

“I hardly believe our captain would entertain that notion, Doctor, flattering though it may be.”

“Flattering, my eye,” McCoy muttered under his breath.

Spock gave T’Anna a surreptitious glance. Her eyes were twinkling.

“Ma’am, you’re on the mend, but Starfleet Medical would have my head on a platter if I didn’t at least broach the possibility of your staying in Sickbay overnight for observation before we help you get where you’re going.”

“I appreciate your concern, Doctor. However, I cannot ask Starfleet Medical to allocate its resources inefficiently on my behalf. I should like to depart Sickbay at the earliest possible moment so as not to inconvenience you further.” The envoy turned her head slightly so that her gaze took in both men. “As of today, I am on leave for six weeks; my destination was to be Opalescia Tau before I was intercepted.”

“We need to report that incident, ma’am,” McCoy pointed out. “Are you feeling well enough to tell us what happened—for the record, I mean?”

“Of course, Doctor, although I fear I can tell you very little beyond what I reported some moments ago.”

McCoy fetched the PADD for the medical log from yet another storage drawer. The envoy recounted her memory of the sub-quantum transporter assault as best she could, although as she had predicted, the details she could offer were negligible. “Gentlemen, this incident has potential security considerations; I trust I may rely on your discretion,” she concluded.

“Surely, ma’am,” replied McCoy.

 _You may trust me with your life_ , Spock thought. And then: _Curious. My instinctive desire to protect this envoy from harm far exceeds my professional obligation to do so. I wonder why._ Aloud he said, “You may do so, Envoy.”

T’Anna inclined her head in acknowledgment.

“Envoy, the _Enterprise_ is bound for Opalescia Tau, just as you were prior to being intercepted. No diversion in course would be required to transport you there.” Spock made a quick decision: “You are welcome aboard this starship on my authority as first officer, pending the approval of my captain, with whom I shall confer at the earliest opportunity. Be advised that under the circumstances, I do not foresee his declining my request.”

“Thank you, Mr. Spock. That solution seems not only logical, but also kind. I am very much in your debt.”

“You have incurred no debt, Envoy. It is my pleasure to welcome you aboard as both a Federation representative and a fellow Vulcan.”

McCoy said, “Ma’am, are you sure I can’t persuade you to stay in Sickbay overnight, just as a precaution?”

“Doctor, I greatly appreciate your concern, but I am very much recovered, truly. I see no need to trouble you further at present.”

Spock thought it best not to subject the envoy to Dr. McCoy’s excessively high decibel levels and sustained excitability for longer than was strictly necessary. Undoubtedly she would rest more easily outside Sickbay. Moreover, she was free to hail either one of them should she encounter additional difficulties. He looked at McCoy and arched an eyebrow. The doctor nodded.

Spock walked to the intercom. “Sickbay to Quartermaster, Spock here.”

“Quartermaster here.”

“Quartermaster, please estimate the time required to prepare a suite in escorted guest quarters.”

At one time, official guests had been permitted to move about Federation starships at will, albeit with restricted access to sensitive locations such as the engine room or bridge. But after numerous dignitaries were attacked—and occasionally even murdered—while aboard ship, Starfleet’s formerly lackadaisical attitude had undergone a sea change. Official guests now joined senior officers in possessing key codes to their doors. In addition, they could not leave the guest area unescorted. Finally, as had happened some moments ago, identity checks were performed immediately after the dignitary in question was beamed aboard.

“Estimated time to readiness seven minutes, sir.”

“Very well, Quartermaster; commence preparations. You and your subordinates are permitted to escort the Terran envoy to Vulcan to necessary destinations on my authority.”

“Acknowledged.”

“Thank you, Quartermaster. Spock out.” He retrieved T’Anna’s luggage.

“Are you sure you can walk, ma’am?” McCoy asked.

“I am certain, Doctor. Thank you. The hyposprays you administered have proved most efficacious.” And indeed, her face had acquired some color in the intervening minutes.

McCoy glanced at Spock, who nodded. Both men helped her up.

“Ma’am, you’re free to go,” said McCoy. “But for heaven’s sake, hail if you get dehydrated again. We’ll fix you up. It’s no trouble. And one more thing: Come back in a week even if you don’t have any more problems. Better safe than sorry.”

“Certainly, Doctor.”

“May I accompany you to your quarters, Envoy?” asked Spock, offering her his arm.

She took it. “I should be honored, Mr. Spock. Thank you.” And to McCoy: “Thank you again for your assistance, Doctor. I wish you a very pleasant day.”

“Same to you, ma’am.”

Spock nodded to McCoy and escorted the envoy out of Sickbay. Once they were well out of the doctor’s hearing, T’Anna switched to Vulcan. “I see that the chief surgeon of the _Enterprise_ displays both excitability and heedlessness, while you exhibit neither trait. Am I correct in surmising that much of the disagreement between you stems from those intrinsic differences in temperament?”

“Indeed, Envoy.”

She had taken McCoy’s measure very quickly. Spock wondered whether she had also taken his own.


	2. Chapter 2

“Captain Kirk,” said Uhura quietly as she was leaving the bridge. “May I have a word with you, sir?”

“Certainly.” Kirk was intrigued; his communications officer wasn’t in the habit of seeking him out for cozy tête-à-têtes. “Are you all right, Lieutenant?” He searched her face.

“I’m all right, sir, thank you. I am worried about Mr. Spock, though.” She lowered her voice still further. “I don’t like the look of him, Captain. He’s seemed tense for the past few hours, which isn’t like him at all. And, sir—”

“What is it?” And when she hesitated: “It’s all right, Uhura. You can tell me.”

“Captain, when we ran into that ion storm an hour ago, I ended up on the floor, and Mr. Spock helped me up and put me back in my chair. Bodily.”

“Par for the course, Uhura. Starfleet needs to order seatbelts—and fuses.”

“Yes, sir, they do. But the reason it registered with me was that”—she hesitated again—“sir, he was feverish. I could feel the excess heat from his hands. Something’s wrong, sir, but I don’t know what, and I don’t feel right asking him about it. He _is_ a senior officer, and we’re neighbors in a way.” Meaning that their duty stations were adjacent. “And even if we did hold the same rank, he’s such a private person that I wouldn’t want to bother him. But he may be ill, sir. At least I think he is.”

Kirk frowned. Uhura was right, but he couldn’t tell her—or anyone else, for that matter—what the problem was, or even that there was a problem in the first place. For he now knew that his colleague was experiencing his latest round of _pon farr._ His moment of absentmindedness, his steepled fingers—these had been clues. And the information Uhura had provided was the clincher.

“Thank you, Uhura.”

“You’re welcome, sir. And please don’t tell Mr. Spock I said anything. He wouldn’t like it.”

“I won’t tell him, I promise. It’ll be all right. You’re free to go.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Kirk sighed inwardly as Uhura left the bridge. The reassuring words he’d spoken were for his own benefit as much as hers. He had already watched his colleague suffer through two bouts of _pon farr._ Spock had survived each instance, but the stakes remained dangerously high. As always, there was little Kirk could do except give Spock leave and divert to Vulcan if possible. At present, they were nowhere near Spock’s homeworld and would not reach that desert planet soon enough to halt the progress of the condition. However, meditation had been known to mitigate its effects, and Kirk had every confidence in the mental fortitude of his second-in-command. But he had to track him down first.

“Lieutenant Palmer, have you heard from Mr. Spock or Dr. McCoy in the past five minutes?”

“Negative, Captain. Shall I raise them for you?”

“Please.”

“Certainly, sir.” She switched channels. “Bridge to Mr. Spock, bridge to Dr. McCoy.”

No reply.

“Bridge to Mr. Spock, please—”

At which Spock himself stepped off the lift and hurried to Kirk’s side. “Please accept my apologies for causing you concern, Captain. I was accompanying the Terran envoy to Vulcan to guest quarters.”

“Why was that, Mr. Spock?” The _Enterprise_ was most emphatically not a passenger ship.

Spock told him.

“I see,” said Kirk thoughtfully at last. “Did Mr. Kyle check the identification codes in the envoy’s dossier?”

“Affirmative, Captain. They were confirmed valid.”

“Very well, Mr. Spock. We’ll take her with us to Opalescia Tau. We’re already headed there; it’s the hospitable thing to do.”

“Thank you, Captain. We seem to be in agreement.”

Kirk held up a hand. “Not so fast, Mr. Spock. We’ll transport her on one condition: She—or rather, her welfare—must be in your charge. Consider this your first diplomatic assignment.”

“Acknowledged, Captain. Please know that I shall endeavor to prove myself worthy of it.”

“Understood, Mr. Spock. Understood. And good luck to you.”

“Captain, please forgive the liberty, but I believe that more than good luck will be required to effect a favorable outcome.”

Kirk chuckled. “That’s no liberty, Mr. Spock; that’s just the truth. Telling you ‘good luck’ means I wish you well.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“Certainly, Mr. Spock. By the way,” Kirk said in an undertone, “I’m aware of your current . . . condition.”

Spock gave him a warning look. “Captain—”

“And it’s time for you to get well, starting now. I wish we weren’t so far from Vulcan. However, effective immediately, and for the next ten days, you are considered to be taking personal leave when not attending official diplomatic functions.” Of which there would be exactly one. “You’re also considered to be a guest of the _Enterprise,_ and the meditation room is yours for the asking. Take two bowls of _plomik_ soup and call me when your leave is over.”

“Have you become a doctor, Captain?”

“In a way, Mr. Spock. Consider yourself my first patient; I’ve just diagnosed you. You have your script. Go fill it. Doctor’s orders.”

“Script, Captain?”

“Prescription, Mr. Spock.”

“Acknowledged.”

Kirk looked thoughtfully at his first officer’s retreating back. It was time to call in the cavalry. “Lieutenant Palmer, have Mr. Scott report to the bridge. I’m going to Sickbay.”

* * *

 

McCoy met Kirk at the door. “Did Spock tell you about the medical log entry, Jim?”

“He did, but that’s not why I came to see you.”

“Are you feeling all right?” McCoy swept him with the tricorder. “Your scans look good.”

Kirk sighed. “A tricorder won’t diagnose this particular problem, Bones. Would you mind playing Solomon for a few minutes?”

“Not unless you start asking me to saw people in half. I had more than enough of that in med school.” They crossed the room and seated themselves by McCoy’s desk. “What’s the matter, Jim?”

“I’m not a doctor, Bones, but I think Spock’s feverish.”

“I _know_ he’s feverish,” McCoy replied grimly. “I could see it in his eyes. And as if that weren’t enough, a Vulcan diplomat just happens to be aboard.”

“Right.” Kirk hesitated. “I _could_ order him to stay away from her and set up camp in the meditation room.” He quirked a hopeful eyebrow.

The doctor shook his head. “Sorry, Jim. You’d be taking too big of a risk. Spock’s human genes introduce numerous biochemical variables that meditation may or may not be able to influence.”

“But if he and the envoy do become involved and break off the relationship on bad terms, that’ll put us at risk of an interplanetary incident.”

“ _Jim!_ ” gasped McCoy. ”Do you realize what you’re saying? Since when do you care more about interplanetary incidents than the life of your first officer? He’s the best you have—the best the whole _fleet_ has!”

Kirk held up a hand. “Look, Bones, I know you’re right, but—”

“And anyway, why would there have to be an incident? You remember what happened with Lian Jamison, don’t you?”

Kirk nodded.

“They parted amicably, and it makes perfect sense that he and the envoy would too. It’s all a matter of logic, Jim. After the fever’s run its course, he won’t have any emotion left for recriminations. And neither will she.”

“Well—”

“There’s one other thing you don’t know, Jim,” said McCoy with the satisfied air of someone who knows he holds the winning card.

Kirk sighed. “Okay, Bones, I’ll bite. What is it?”

“She has what he has.”

Kirk regarded him sharply. “Bones, are you sure about that?”

“Without a doubt,” McCoy replied. “I suspected it when I first laid eyes on her. Her tricorder results proved it conclusively.”

Kirk bit his lip. “In that case, I withdraw my objection.” Not only did the good of the _Enterprise_ depend on his first officer’s continued good health, he also couldn’t have a Federation envoy dying on his watch from something that in this instance was an entirely curable condition.

McCoy looked pleased. “As they say back on Earth, Jim, we’ll be killing two birds with one stone. It’s time for us to let Vulcan nature take its course.”

Kirk nodded. “I think I can handle that prescription, Dr. Solomon. You can put that sword of yours away now. And for heaven’s sake, don’t let Sulu get hold of it.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” The doctor smiled beatifically as he walked Kirk to the door.

Kirk thought he would have made a fine Cheshire cat.

* * *

 

Kirk had timed his arrival perfectly; T’Anna was just emerging from the meditation room when he saw her.

“Good afternoon, Envoy. The quartermaster said I’d find you here.” He indicated the meditation room with a lift of his eyebrow. “I trust you had a pleasant session.”

“Very much so, thank you. May I say that you and others aboard the _Enterprise_ have been the kindest of hosts.”

“You are most welcome.” He hesitated.

She noticed. “May I help you in some way? Is there some difficulty?”

“Not at all. In fact, I came to invite you to dinner on behalf of my officers and crew.”

“You are more than kind to extend the invitation.”

“How could I not be kind to such a gracious lady?”

T’Anna blushed. Kirk had never seen a Vulcan blush before, and he found it becoming. _Good thing Bones isn’t here; I’d never hear the end of it._ “Forgive me, Envoy. It’s ill-mannered for a host to embarrass his guests.”

“All is forgiven, Captain Kirk. And please allow me to thank you for your very gracious invitation, which I shall be most pleased to accept.”

 _She certainly sounds like Spock._ “I’m honored.”

“I do wonder, however—may I make a request of you?”

“Certainly.”

“A Terran idiom has it that guests should sing for their supper as a way of earning their hosts’ hospitality. May I offer you that gift?”

“It would be a great honor, Envoy. Thank you.” The first rule of Federation diplomacy was that one must never refuse a gift offered in friendship. Further, he was intrigued by her suggestion. It was not one he heard often. Artistic performances given by high officials aboard a starship were rare, to say the least—even if one counted Anton Karidian’s Shakespearean stint, which Kirk was disinclined to do; _that_ incident had nearly cost the life of his erstwhile navigator. Kirk grimaced at the recollection.

The envoy’s touch on his wrist returned him to the present. She was regarding him anxiously. “Captain Kirk, are you quite well?”

“Of course, Envoy. I merely . . . remembered something I’d rather forget.”

“I see.”

The envoy had spoken with perfect composure, but Kirk thought he saw her pale face turn a shade paler. “Envoy, are _you_ quite well?”

She straightened almost imperceptibly. “I am well enough, Captain Kirk, and I appreciate your asking.”

“Well enough,” he asked gently, “to sing tonight?”

“More than well enough for that.” Her tone was light, but the determination in her eyes told Kirk that the subject was not open for debate. Presently she said, “It will be my honor to sing for you tonight.”

“Shall we call it . . . mutual honor, then?”

“By all means.” She smiled.

He smiled back. “We have a wonderful music room, but we hardly ever use it.”

“A music room on a starship? Truly?” Her eyes lit up.

“Truly.” He smiled at her again.

“A fitting home for the music of the spheres,” she murmured. “May I ask who it was that proposed giving the _Enterprise_ a music room? Was it you, Captain Kirk?”

“No, Envoy, Mr. Spock suggested it. Not only is he our first officer and science officer, he’s also an accomplished harpist and pianist.”

“I didn’t realize that,” she said. “Are most senior officers such polymaths, do you think?”

“I should say not, Envoy. Mr. Spock is an exception to many rules.” He paused. “Would you be willing to be his dinner companion tonight? He can be rather reserved, and I know that Vulcans, in particular, get homesick. Even Mr. Spock.” _Especially Mr. Spock._ “I know he’d appreciate talking with someone who speaks his native language for a change.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

The boatswain’s whistle sounded as the ship juddered.

“Engineering to Captain Kirk.” Scotty’s voice.

Kirk walked to the intercom. “Kirk here. What just happened, Scotty?”

“Our warp drive just failed, Captain.”

“Can you switch to impulse?”

“Aye.”

“Do it. I’m on my way down. Kirk out.” To T’Anna he said, “I’m sorry, Envoy, but I doubt even you can make a warp drive talk peace.”

She smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid not.”

“We may need to dock at a starbase for repairs,” he said. “It seems your leave may be off to a late start.”

“That’s quite all right, Captain Kirk. Please do not worry on my account.”

“Thank you, Envoy,” he said. “As a consolation prize”—he quirked an eyebrow—“our dinner plans remain in force. I’ll look forward to seeing you at 2000 hours—eight o’clock. Formal dress.” He nodded to her, offered her one last smile, and departed.

* * *

 

Two hours in a cramped shuttlecraft had left Tamsil Thomas Baldwin feeling even more restless than usual, which for him was saying something. He’d arrived on Opalescia Tau an hour ago to begin his leave, and the first thing he’d done was seek out the nearest bar. He was ready for a break, and from the looks of things, one was headed straight for him. The walls of the bar were dark, and the room was dimly lit, but there was no mistaking the sight of a Klingon in full battle dress, and there were two of them seating themselves at a table not two meters away from his own. Both warriors had short dark hair and coffee-colored skin, and both wore armor overlaid with a black uniform top and a subtly shimmering tunic. The older one also wore a lozenge-patterned gold baldric. There was something familiar about the younger of the two, but Tamsil couldn’t place it.

“There will be no more delays. Once we reach the starbase, all we must do is gain access to the vessel!” the younger was hissing.

 _Starbase?_ Tamsil’s heart beat faster. Just before boarding the shuttlecraft that afternoon, he’d noted the name of the U.S.S. _Enterprise,_ along with the ship’s manifest, in the log of impending arrivals. This sounded promising.

“Impossible, Khoryath,” said the older, burlier one. “It is closely guarded by Federation lackeys. We would be two against two hundred. Even the most dull-witted of humans would not mistake _us_ for Starfleet mechanics. We must find another way.”

Tamsil’s blood sang; his heart pounded. This was more than promising. This was _it_. This was his chance, his moment. Fifteen years of searching and waiting and biding his time had come to an end. If all went as he hoped, he would gladly forfeit the rest of his leave; under the circumstances, it seemed a small enough price to pay. He put down his glass of bloodwine, crossed to the two warriors, and recited the words his Klingon mother had made him repeat until he heard them in his dreams: “I am called Tamsil, son of Roxat, daughter of Tamas, judge of the High Council, and I greet you in the name of our esteemed empire.”

Khoryath scoffed. “ _Our_ empire? You are no Klingon. You are human. Your appearance betrays you.” Tamsil’s Terran father had thoughtlessly cursed him with blond hair and pale skin. He had spent a lifetime trying to live down that curse, and to be taunted with it now was the last straw.

“You have insulted me! And you’ll pay for that insult!” Tamsil came around the table, drawing his knife. Khoryath drew his own knife and advanced with a snarl meant to intimidate, but Tamsil was unfazed. He had mastered the craft of hand-to-hand combat years ago, learning very early on how to use his deceptively slight frame to its best advantage. He retreated several paces, rocked back on his heels, and charged at Khoryath with a vicious kick that knocked him to the floor with a gasp and sent his knife flying well out of reach. Tamsil’s next target was the older man’s shoulder, which he immobilized with a crushing grip and then used as a lever for a half-cartwheel that he landed perfectly on both feet. He threw his knife after Khoryath’s, noting with satisfaction that his erstwhile adversary’s mouth was hanging open in surprise.

“Khoryath, you are a Klingon, not a fish,” reproved the older warrior. “Close your mouth.”

Khoryath snapped his mouth shut and glared at the two of them in turn.

The older warrior nodded approvingly. “You acquit yourself well, Tamsil, son of Roxat.”

 _Son of Roxat._ And then it struck him: Khoryath’s distinctive almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones were all but identical to those of Tamsil’s own mother. This was the resemblance he hadn’t been able to place earlier—there was a genetic link. There had to be. Here was something—or some _one_ —he could work with, if only he could win him over.

“Why have you approached us?” the elder Klingon was asking him.

“I am a mechanic at a Federation starbase,” Tamsil replied. “And I wish to settle a long-running debt.”

The older warrior regarded him speculatively. “Very well,” he said. “I am called Khadvedor, and I believe Khoryath needs no introduction.” He indicated an adjacent chair. “Share a meal with us, Tamsil. We have much to discuss.”

Tamsil hardly knew where to start.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Shortly before eight o’clock, McCoy found himself standing beside Kirk, Spock, and other senior personnel in the spacious white-walled parlor that led into the formal dining room of the _Enterprise_. There were three notable absences. Scotty was deputizing for Kirk and Spock in the captain’s chair, although his real home was the engine room. Likewise, Palmer had been so engrossed in a manual about the care and feeding of communications circuits that she didn’t want to leave the console even after Uhura offered to relieve her. The final absentee was Nurse Chapel, who had observed wryly that her backlog of unread medical journals made her digital reader seem like a latter-day Leaning Tower of Pisa. McCoy did not press her for information. He knew her reasons for declining the invitation, and she knew that he knew, but he made no mention of them, for which she was grateful.

“It’s for the best, Jim,” he told Kirk confidentially. “But I’m sorry just the same.”

“I know, Bones. I’m sorry too.”

McCoy adjusted the collar of his dress uniform and regarded Kirk critically. _Jim looks positively wistful_ — _what’s the matter with him? And what in blazes is eating Spock besides that fever of his? He looks about ready to bolt._ For Spock, hands clasped behind his back, held himself even more stiffly than usual, and he kept his face under such rigid control that McCoy could almost feel his own jaw muscles twitching in sympathy.

“Bones, stop fidgeting. We’ll eat when we eat,” said Kirk. “I think even you can live another five minutes without food.”

McCoy checked his antique chronometer. It read five of.

* * *

 

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” said a low, melodious voice from twenty paces away. T’Anna, envoy to Vulcan, homeworld Vulcan, stood in the doorway at the far end of the parlor. “May I trust that my arrival has been suitably prompt?”

Taken aback, Spock could only stare as the envoy moved unhurriedly forward—almost, he thought, as if she were leading a procession. She had appeared so soundlessly that he had failed to register her arrival. This in itself was unusual, given his keen hearing. _And her appearance is_ —his breath caught— _extraordinary. Striking. Regal._ Indeed, attired as she was, she could easily have been a queen in the days when Old High Vulcan was spoken in their shared homeworld. That part of Spock’s brain which catalogued everything he saw noted a black gown very much like those he had seen in Terran Renaissance portraits of queens and noblewomen, with its close-fitting square neckline, flowing sleeves, basque waist, and floor-length full skirt. Reinforcing the impression of royalty was the necklace she wore—an oval-shaped setting of sapphires surrounding a luminously iridescent opal. Completing the ensemble were the sapphire-and-opal combs that held her upswept black hair in place, their design reminiscent of a simple crown. Spock, observing the blue highlights that shimmered in her hair, thought that it greatly resembled satin.

_Fascinating. And as for her eyes, her hands—No! If I observe her more closely, I shall surely be lost to the flames. The time I have left to me is fleeting. Let me not disgrace—_

A tap on his shoulder startled him. “Stop staring like a landed fish, Spock!” whispered McCoy. “At least close your mouth all the way!”

McCoy’s words shattered Spock’s reverie. The science officer closed his mouth hastily and made a fractional turn toward his colleague. “Thank you for alerting me to the fact of my unfortunate physical appearance, Doctor. I am very much obliged to you.” He turned to face forward again.

“Okay, Spock. I’ll bite. What’s going on?”

Spock made no reply. Instead he schooled his features into impassivity. _She must not know! Do not let me disgrace—_

He felt the envoy’s gaze upon him. He met her eyes. She was regarding him warmly.

“Mr. Spock,” she said, “your captain has done me the great kindness of recognizing that as a Vulcan who misses her homeworld, I might wish to speak freely with you in our common language. As indeed I do.”

Spock replied silently: _As I with you. Do you know that I do?_

“Accordingly, he has asked that you be my dinner companion for the evening. Would you do me that honor?”

“It would be my pleasure, Envoy,” he answered, keeping his voice level. “I can only hope that I and others will offer you a welcome that is to your liking.”

“I have every confidence that you will, Mr. Spock, as indeed you yourself are already doing. Shall we go in?”

“Certainly, Envoy.” As they advanced toward their places at the table, he registered her scent with a flash of recognition. Oranges were his favorite food of all, but those luscious fruits were a delicacy in the Vulcan desert, served only on occasions of state and other festival days. Everywhere he traveled, their sweet scent took him home, recalling times of ceremony, of import. And somehow, their scent was also hers.

He wondered what this might mean. Then he thought himself illogical for doing so. _Why am I succumbing to fanciful thoughts?_

* * *

 

He held a chair for her.

“Thank you, Mr. Spock,” she said quietly after both of them were seated.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

For the next few moments, they devoted themselves to their meal, with which T’Anna pronounced herself delighted. “Really, Mr. Spock,” she said, her eyes twinkling, “I should have requested a visit here simply to enjoy the food!”

“I shall convey your compliments to the chefs,” Spock replied. “They typically receive far more insults than accolades—however unjustified those insults may be.”

She smiled. “Such is the way of institutional food, is it not? Unremarkable if not maligned most of the time, but with a few lovely surprises every now and again—in this instance, the fine caliber of chefs aboard the _Enterprise_ and their equally fine rendition of Vulcan cuisine.” She regarded him thoughtfully. “Mr. Spock, have you been told that there will be a musicale tonight for all who wish to attend?”

“I have been told.”

“Do you by any chance plan to participate?”

“I do.” To her silent query he said, “I am somewhat familiar with both the harp and the piano.” He vividly recalled playing the latter instrument for Flint so that Kirk could dance with Rayna. The composition had been an undiscovered Brahms waltz written by none other than Flint himself, who had devoted several illustrious lifetimes, including Brahms’ own, to the creative arts.

“May I ask, Mr. Spock—do you refer to the Vulcan harp or the concert harp?”

“I refer to both instruments, Envoy.”

She nodded. “In that case, Mr. Spock, may I impose on your kindness by requesting your services as an accompanist?”

“It would be my privilege to accompany you, Envoy,” he said. “May I ask what type of music you propose to sing?”

“Traditional melodies from Hungary. No, Mr. Spock”—as he raised both eyebrows in consternation—“please be assured that knowledge of the Magyar language is not a prerequisite by any means. I will gladly provide you with translations in addition to musical scores, although the songs are simple and therefore, I gather, well within your scope, as Captain Kirk informs me that you are an accomplished harpist and pianist.”

“I am neither, Envoy. He honors me too highly.”

“I very much doubt that, Mr. Spock. I recognize that starship captains hold both themselves and their officers to extremely high standards. I suspect, however,” she mused, “that even your captain’s standards are lower than those which you set for yourself.”

“You are perceptive, Envoy.”

“Hardly that, Mr. Spock.” Her eyes were sad. “Merely experienced.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“One keeper of high standards knows another.” She sighed and was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, she seemed to have recovered herself, for her tone was considerably lighter. “Are you amenable to discussing a subject that most Vulcans would consider taboo?”

He found himself both astonished and wary—what diplomat would dream of committing such an indiscretion?—but his wariness soon gave way to curiosity. “I am not only amenable, Envoy, but also intrigued.”

“Thank you, Mr. Spock,” she acknowledged. “What would you say if I were to liken creativity to the”—she paused delicately—“seven-year time?”

Perhaps wariness had been the appropriate response. Was the envoy aware of his current condition? He had to proceed with caution. “I should describe your analogy as flawed,” he said at last. “Orderly thinking is typically absent during that time, as you know, whereas many if not most creative works follow an internal logic.”

“That much is certainly true, Mr. Spock,” she conceded. “However, would you agree that both states of being tend to consume those who are experiencing them?”

“Indeed.”

“Further, would you agree that the creative process can be chaotic?”

“Not if it is approached in a logical manner.”

“’Approached.’” She thought it over. “Therein lies the problem, I suspect. So many artists have no approach, no plan. The creative impulse simply happens when it can, and they heed it when it does.”

“That seems haphazard, Envoy.”

She smiled. “Perhaps it does to you, Mr. Spock, and to me, and to others trained as we were. However, barring conclusive proof of a First Cause, I fear we must admit that the very first creation was born of chaos.”

“What creation was that, Envoy?”

“The universe, Mr. Spock.”

He nodded.

“And if that creation was born of chaos, who is to say that other creations may not be? _Quod est demonstratum_ —thus the proof.”

“Allow me to say that you possess a most exceptional mind.”

Her expression softened. “I might say the same of you.”

He was beginning to discover that in her presence, appreciation required very little effort.

* * *

 

The dinner was concluding. Most of the guests had risen, Spock saw, and from force of long habit were pushing their chairs toward the center of the table preparatory to departing for the music room. T’Anna, however, had not risen, and he accordingly remained seated beside her.

“Mr. Spock,” she said, “before we adjourn, I should like you to know how very much I have enjoyed our conversation this evening. In addition, please know that I am indebted to you and your colleagues—but especially to you—for your kindness to me since my arrival. You honor me greatly.”

“The honor was mine, Envoy. The kindness was yours.” The words were his father’s, spoken over the years to an impressive assortment of grandees and their wives and husbands, for Sarek had long been Vulcan’s ambassador to the Federation. Doubtless she had heard the same words many times herself, always as a rote, formulaic courtesy. This time, however, the sentiment was entirely genuine, and he hoped she realized that.

“If you will permit me to contradict you, Mr. Spock,” the envoy said quietly, “I find that those assertions are not entirely accurate.”

“In what regard, Envoy?”

“The honor has been mine also, and the kindness yours. For I am greatly honored by the care that you and your colleagues have shown to me, a stranger. You, in particular, have been exceptionally kind.”

Spock bent his head in what might have been a bow. “I do not deserve such an accolade from you, Envoy. I have merely fulfilled my duty as I was instructed to do by my captain.”

“Mr. Spock, you have done far more than your duty requires. Perhaps you do not realize the extent of your kindness.”

“I am what I am, Envoy.” Spock bent his head again, this time in unwonted confusion: _I am not accustomed to receiving compliments from women—particularly those who comport themselves as royalty might and are seemingly unaware of the extraordinary impression they convey._

“But that assertion is only logical, Mr. Spock,” the envoy said, a smile lighting her eyes. “Certainly you are who you are—which is to say that you are very kind. Indeed, despite the brevity of our acquaintance, I can sense that you possess an extraordinarily gentle nature.”

“Envoy—”

“No, Mr. Spock.” In emphasis, she placed a light, elegant hand on his wrist.

The physical contact jolted him. Then the heat of her hands registered. _How she burns! Her time is fleeting—_

“I shall brook no further objections from you tonight with respect to your kindness, Mr. Spock,” she asserted lightly. “Nor indeed for the duration of my visit.” Her expression altered, becoming solemn. “But for your efforts and those of your colleagues, I might very well have lost my life in the transporter room of your starship upon my unexpected—dare I say fortuitous?—arrival.”

 _Indeed, she might very well have done, had her breathing difficulties continued unabated._ He felt a stab of something he could not readily identify. He closed his eyes briefly against the unaccustomed sensation. A moment later, he opened them again, only to discover that the envoy was observing him worriedly.

“Mr. Spock, are you unwell?”

“On the contrary, Envoy, I am quite well.” He was surprised to discover the truth of his words; he _was_ well, despite the flames which pursued him. “I thank you for your concern, which you are most generous to display. In that moment, I was concerned for you.” _And that concern has not diminished. Rather, it has grown._

“Concern for others often leads to some form of pain,” T’Anna noted. “That seems to be natural when people share a bond.” She was silent for a long moment. And when she spoke again, it was in a voice that trembled. “Mr. Spock—”

He looked at her inquiringly.

“May we speak further tonight, after the musicale? Regarding matters of—shall I describe it as mutual concern?”

“Certainly,” he replied. “I should be most honored.” And slowly, tentatively, he took her hand. He waited for her to withdraw, but she did not. In the next moment, her expression altered, becoming both amused and embarrassed. He found that even the strictest of his training was useless in this setting. Consternation showed plainly on his face, plain for her to see, plain for anyone to see. _What have I said? What have I done? Does she too now believe that I am a failure, a—_

She broke into his thoughts with the lightest of pressure on his hand. “No, Mr. Spock. Please be assured that the response you noted a moment ago did not arise from the source you fear. Observe.” She tilted her head so that her gaze took in the whole of the dining room. He did likewise, only to realize belatedly that the room was quite deserted except for the two of them. “Surely the other guests will be waiting for us.”

 _Fascinating_ , he thought. _I have failed to notice the obvious._

“Shall we join them, Mr. Spock?”

“With pleasure,” he replied past a sudden break in his voice. “With the very greatest of pleasure.” He rose from the table and held her chair as she stood.

 _Fascinating_ , he thought again. The voice had never seemed so fragile an instrument.

He wondered what she would sing.

* * *

 

The white-and-gold wooden door with its antique skeleton key stood open, revealing a music room that was fully as lovely as Kirk had promised T’Anna it would be. Tall windows looked out on a majestic sweep of stars. The walls were painted the pale blue of a sunny Terran sky. Warmly tinted overhead lighting created an intimate space. At regular intervals along the walls, sconces flickered with candlelight, which T’Anna realized upon close examination was not actually candlelight at all. Rather, each sconce held a clear incandescent bulb fashioned in the likeness of a thin tapered flame. From even a short distance away, the effect was remarkably convincing. Stylized flowers, leaves, and vines danced across crown molding that glowed with gold leaf, giving depth to the flickering light. Even the furniture was beautiful as well as functional. It was of Rococo design, if she recalled her Earth art history coursework correctly. Chairs, sofas, and benches were adorned with gold-leaf trim whose ornate pattern echoed that of the room’s crown molding. Some of the pieces were upholstered in peach brocade, while others were rendered in a pale blue silk that matched the color of the walls. Loveliest of all in her estimation was the concert harp that stood at the extreme end of the room. It gleamed with lush garlands and arabesques of gold leaf that bore a faint copper sheen. _A masterpiece indeed._ _Very soon we shall see whether my voice augments or diminishes its beauty,_ she thought as Spock seated her and sat down beside her _._

Kirk made his way to the concert harp and turned to face the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?”

A polite hush fell over the group.

“Thank you for joining us as we bring you a special performance. Tonight we welcome T’Anna, the Terran envoy to Vulcan and currently a guest of the _Enterprise,_ as our honored musician. I realize that having our visitors perform for us isn’t our typical form of welcome. We’re here this evening because our guest _asked_ to sing for us. I could hardly refuse such an unusual offer—or such a gracious one. Thank you, Envoy.” His eyes were unaccountably wistful. “I’d also like to acknowledge Mr. Spock for putting this music room together in the first place. It was his idea, and I’m very grateful. Mr. Spock, you help make the music of the spheres audible to all of us, and I hope the stars will have the good sense to thank you for it someday.”

T’Anna smiled softly. She was certain that they would.

“Until they do,” Kirk said, “I’d like to thank you myself—both for giving the _Enterprise_ a music room and for agreeing to serve as our guest’s accompanist this evening.”

Spock inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“With that, Envoy, Mr. Spock”—Kirk signaled for them to come forward—“carry on, share, and enjoy.” He nodded to the audience and made his way to a chair beside McCoy in the front row.

T’Anna rose and moved without haste to the place Kirk had vacated. Spock followed, seating himself at the concert harp.

“Thank you, Captain Kirk, for your kind introduction,” T’Anna began. “I can only hope that you will continue to find my offer gracious _after_ you have heard me sing; I should hate to be keelhauled by a roomful of angry critics.”

A ripple of laughter went around the room.

“That said, I shall _attempt_ to keep my various pitches in line—or, given the occasion, I should perhaps rephrase that as ‘keep them on staff.’”

Appreciative laughter and a few groans greeted this sally.

“Ah yes, I see. Kindly instruct your solicitors to send your complaints via subspace frequency,” she said, to the accompaniment of more laughter. “I’d like to present a selection of traditional songs from Hungary. That country is as proud as she is small, and her songs reflect that pride. I am pleased to share a number of them with you tonight, and I hope that you will enjoy them. If you do not, I very much hope that you will be lenient in accepting my apologies, for the fault will have been entirely mine.”

There was another ripple of laughter.

“Mr. Spock has graciously agreed to serve as my accompanist this evening. Mr. Spock, please accept my thanks for your kind assistance. I am well aware that your musical accomplishments surpass mine by a quite considerable margin.”

He bowed.

She responded in kind and turned back to face the audience. “Should any of you wish to follow in Mr. Spock’s courageous footsteps, I shall be pleased to sing with you following the intermission for as long as my voice shall last. Incidentally, please be aware that my command of language in song is not limited to Vulcan”—which she listed first for Spock’s benefit—“Hungarian, or English. Kindly consider my offer an open invitation, for this evening is intended, as Captain Kirk said a moment ago, for all of us to share and enjoy. That said, there have been words enough. Let us make music together.”

* * *

 

With one song remaining before the intermission, T’Anna looked over at Spock as he sat on the silk-upholstered bench, his hands stilled on the strings of the concert harp, awaiting further instructions.

“Tune for Mixolydian mode in G, please,” she told him _sotto voce_. “And feel free to accompany me beginning with the second verse, as seems to have become our”—she smiled gently—“most sensible custom.”

“Acknowledged,” he replied. She watched him adjust the pedals of the harp according to her specifications so that all accidentals were removed.

As songs went, it was a simple one. She expected to receive a few modestly spaced chords, a few guideposts by way of accompaniment, so that her voice would hold its course and not stray off-key. And in the second verse, that was exactly what happened.

But then came something she did not expect. In the third verse, her simple song was transformed as the golden notes of the harp flowed all around her, shining in counterpoint to the deep velvet of her voice. For Spock, as if by some alchemical magic, had added first two and then three lines of harmony, three voices to her own, so that together they wove on an unseen loom a tapestry of song, a living motet in which her voice was the sole constant.

All at once she realized that their minds had touched, that he had offered her a gift not only of his music, but of his memories. She responded with relief. _Know that I am like you. Know that in this moment of creation I have seen your thoughts as you have seen mine. Know that I too am a warrior sent to make peace. I too have always had to fight, from the beginning of my days. I too travel between two worlds yet feel at home in neither._

She sensed him observing her through the curtain of harp strings as she likewise observed him through the simple elemental veil of half-closed eyes. She could sense his gaze upon her, could sense both gentleness and desire in his regard.

 _We are not two, but one._ She was certain of it. She had never been so certain of anything, not in her whole life long. And sometimes her life had seemed too long.

 _We are one,_ she told him silently. _Whither thou goest, I will go._

The last chord shimmered gold between them.


	4. Chapter 4

The intermission was in full swing, the room merry with laughter and animated conversation. At the far end of the hall, near the anteroom, a small crowd had gathered around Kirk and Spock, who were happily debating the merits of the Vulcan harp versus the concert harp. T’Anna could hear Spock playing the occasional note on each instrument in demonstration of something—variances in pitch, perhaps, or timbre. Near the front door, she herself was conversing with the ship’s helmsman and navigator.

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to live in France,” Sulu was saying. “Come to think of it, Mr. Spock called me D’Artagnan once, or so I’m told.”

“He must have been joking!” a startled Chekov replied. “You’re not even French!”

To which she knew that— _Mr._ —Spock would respond with something like, “Mr. Sulu is well aware of both his nationality and his ethnicity, Mr. Chekov.” She smiled gently at her two companions.

“Pavel,” countered Sulu, “Mr. Spock doesn’t make jokes.”

T’Anna interposed. “According to the Vulcan logic in which both Mr. Spock and I were trained, it is impossible to prove the truth of a negative assertion. Shall we try some positive thinking instead?” She smiled from one junior officer to the other, softening what was already a very mild reproof.

“To use a fencing term,” said Sulu, “ _touché_! I concede this battle of wits to Vulcan’s superior logic!” He bowed with a theatrical flourish.

She returned the gesture with apparent gravity, but her eyes twinkled. “Many thanks, Mr. Sulu, for your kind compliment to my homeworld. I shall derive much pleasure from relaying it in due course.” She turned to the navigator. “And you, Mr. Chekov? Where would you live, given the choice?”

“In Russia. Always Russia.”

Her expression softened. “You must love her very much.”

“I do,” Chekov said simply. “She is my home.”

T’Anna was charmed.

Suddenly, ice coiled within her, sending its cold premonitory fingers down her spine. “Excuse me,” she whispered to Sulu and Chekov. She transected the long diagonal of the music room as quickly as she dared. Hurrying through the anteroom to the lavatory beyond, she gasped, tasting fire, reaching the basin barely in time.

 _No! Not tonight of all nights!_ She closed her eyes to shut out the dizziness that tilted and jarred her world on its axis, but her effort was to no avail, for her vision filled with stars that spun even more sickeningly. At length it was over. _I must rest, if only for a moment. If I am fortunate, my absence will be brief enough to escape notice._ She looked up, observing for the first time that someone had put washcloths in the small mirrored cabinet above the basin. Washcloths, yes, and a towel rod from which to hang them. Her eyes filled with tears. _Such kindness, such attentiveness._ Clearly, someone aboard the _Enterprise_ —and she had a very good idea as to who that someone might be—lived his life very much as she attempted to live her own, so that the considerate details, the subtle kindnesses, the small gentlenesses added up to something substantial. _Thank you_ , she thought. _Thank you_.She saturated the washcloth under the cool-water tap, squeezed the excess water from the cloth, and bathed her face with it. That done, she folded it neatly over the towel rod. _I cannot be seen looking like this, feeling like this. I must recover my voice—_

 _My voice._ _Oh, dear._ She rinsed her mouth, scanned the small cabinet again, and was relieved to find a tin of breath mints—another thoughtful gesture. She hazarded one of the mints and was grateful to discover that it soothed her stomach. She waited a few moments for safety’s sake. The world seemed steadier beneath her feet. That much was good, but experience had taught her that a moment of rest was now imperative lest she begin the cycle of illness all over again. She took another mint and returned without haste to the anteroom, where she now noticed two chairs: one upholstered in peach brocade, the other in blue silk, both identical to those she had observed in the main hall. The hall’s other leitmotifs were present here also: the sky-blue walls, the tall windows, the ornate crown molding, the warm overhead lighting, the electric sconces whose light danced in all-but-living flame. Essentially, the rooms were of a piece, albeit on a different scale, and she found this knowledge comforting. Seating herself in the peach-covered chair, she closed her eyes as the fog of weariness descended.

* * *

 

Kirk frowned at his chronometer. “Have you seen our guest in the past five minutes, Mr. Spock?”

“Negative.”

“Find her and bring her back, if you will.”

“Certainly, Captain.” But he was hesitant.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Spock?”

“Vulcans as a people are quite reserved, Captain, and—”

“I’m aware of that, Mr. Spock.” Kirk’s voice was sharp. “If you’re going to be an official host, you’ll have to learn to take the rough with the smooth.”

“Acknowledged.”

“If you’ll excuse me.” Kirk nodded and made his way toward a group of guests.

Spock, left alone, scanned the hall methodically, knowing that the distinctiveness of the envoy’s silhouette worked very much to his advantage. Full-length square-necklined gowns appearing in conjunction with upswept hair and extraordinarily elegant physical features were hardly common sights aboard the _Enterprise_. And now that T’Anna’s presence—or rather, her absence—had been brought to his attention, he did recall a vague impression of someone in a dark gown hurrying by. But the impression had been so fleeting that his mind had barely registered it. Where could his compatriot have gone? He hoped that all was well with her, that all would remain well between the two of them after the evening’s festivities had concluded—indeed, after the cessation of the _pon farr._ The very fact that he hoped for the envoy’s continued presence in his life gave him pause, for he was unaccustomed to experiencing hope—or indeed any human emotion—under normal circumstances. External influences could and did alter the equation, but not permanently. He had thought he could love Leila Kalomi, but that love had evaporated when the narcotic spores relinquished their hold. Likewise, his attraction to Zarabeth had vanished upon his return to the present time and place.

 _But I digress._ On any other occasion, he would have regarded the task Kirk had set him as just another duty to perform, and he would have performed that duty with his customary objectivity, for he had been trained to be both logical and dispassionate. Yet where the envoy was concerned, he found that he was neither. Honesty bade him admit, if only to himself, that he was very strongly drawn to her and that the _pon farr_ was the least of the reasons for the attraction. _Perhaps I must simply accept what is happening between us, for it would be illogical of me to protest against our natures._ But he was troubled nonetheless, having been taught for years that emotion was nothing more than an indulgence, that its expression introduced myriad complexities, all of which were best avoided.

 _Focus!_ His first duty was to concentrate on the task at hand. The main hall had two doors. The first of these led to the anteroom and from thence to the lavatories beyond. The second was the white-and-gold front door through which everyone had entered. If the envoy had retired to the anteroom, he did not wish to disturb her there. Hence, he opted to begin his search at the front door, where he found the starship’s navigator and helmsman engaged in conversation.

“Zefram Cochrane?” Chekov was asking. “But that is incorrect. His name was actually Zefraim Cochranovich. He was Russian, of course.”

Spock said, “Those assertions are inaccurate, Ensign. Please review your Academy history.”

Chekov jumped. “Mr. Spock!”

“Can we help you with anything, sir?” Sulu asked.

“Affirmative, Lieutenant. I am seeking the Terran envoy to Vulcan. Have you spoken with her in the past ten minutes?”

“She was here just a few minutes ago, sir. We were talking, and all of a sudden she turned pale and ran off that way.” He gestured in the direction of the anteroom. “I don’t think she was feeling well, sir.”

“Acknowledged.” He crossed the room quickly. As he neared the door to the anteroom, he perceived the faintest hint of citrus. Here was compelling evidence that T’Anna had stood in this exact location mere moments ago. It was time to investigate. He eased the door open and was not wholly surprised to find the envoy seated motionless in one of the anteroom’s two chairs, her face pale, her eyes closed. He recalled standing guard over her as she lay on the examination table in Sickbay, her eyes full of fear. He also recalled how that fear had dissipated once he had seated himself in an adjacent chair. Accordingly, he moved without haste to her side, kneeling before her and touching her hand.

Her eyes flew open in alarm.

“Envoy,” he said. “Please forgive the intrusion; I was sent to search for you.”

She regarded him warily.

“Were you . . . taken ill a few moments ago?”

“Yes.” It was barely a whisper.

He searched her face. “Shall I hail Dr. McCoy?”

“That will not be necessary, Mr. Spock. Thank you for your concern.”

“Acknowledged,” he said. “Please wait here.” He departed, soon returning with a wet washcloth, which he proffered wordlessly.

She took it from him and bathed her face with it. “Thank you, Mr. Spock. You are very kind.”

He searched her face again. They could not require anything more of her tonight. Musical performances were taxing enough when one was well, which she currently was not. Moreover, the act of singing strained the muscles that contributed to indisposition.

“Envoy,” he asked her softly, “are you overtired?”

“Yes.” Tears came to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. “And now I have disgraced us both.” She swiped at her face with the washcloth.

“Envoy,” Spock said, “do not suffer so. You have brought no disgrace upon either of us.”

“Thank you, Mr. Spock,” she whispered. “You are extraordinarily kind.” More tears fell.

“May I?” Spock indicated the washcloth.

She nodded.

He took the washcloth and dabbed her tears away.

The door opened: Kirk. Spock rose, washcloth in hand, and turned to face his captain.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Spock?”

“Captain, our guest—”

“Gentlemen,” the envoy said. Spock, long accustomed to military discipline, recognized the voice of command when he heard it, however quiet that voice might be. Kirk appeared to recognize it also.

T’Anna straightened in her chair. “Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock, please forgive my unexpected and incommodious absence. I am sorry to have troubled you both. I’m afraid I was . . . briefly unwell, but I now find myself able to rejoin the gathering and fulfill my obligations as promised. All I would ask of you in return is a glass of water—that, and sufficient time to drink it before the performance resumes.”

“Of course, Envoy. Mr. Spock, would you please?”

“Certainly, Captain.” Leaving the anteroom, Spock reflected that the envoy displayed all the determination—but none of the savagery—of the Romulan commander whom he had encountered on a previous mission. He had planned merely to distract the commander so that he and Kirk could locate the flagship’s cloaking device and transport it to the _Enterprise_. But he had soon found himself becoming genuinely attracted to her, even going so far as to appreciate her emotion rather than fear it. Her nature had been passionate, and he surmised that in this respect at least, she and the envoy were very much alike. He retrieved a paper cup from the shelf and filled it with cold water. Returning, he offered the cup of water to T’Anna.

“Thank you, Mr. Spock,” she said.

“You are welcome, Envoy.” She drank the water down, and he was relieved to observe that her color did not change for the worse. Apparently, however, the water didn’t solve the whole of the problem, for T’Anna was rubbing her throat and swallowing experimentally. “I wonder whether I might make an additional request of you, Mr. Spock.”

“Certainly, Envoy. Please ask.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I fear that for the remainder of the evening, I shall need to sing in lower keys than the musical scores indicate. Do you possess relative pitch?” She paused. “That is, can you transpose music from one key to another without the aid of manuscript paper and a writing implement?”

“Affirmative, Envoy. In fact, I possess perfect pitch.”

“You never told me that, Mr. Spock,” said Kirk. “Half the musicians I know would kill to have perfect pitch, and the ones that do have it find it a curse. How on earth did you manage to survive Riley’s debut as an Irish tenor?”

“As you will recall, Captain, I was not on Earth at the time.” Spock remembered the incident vividly. Kevin Thomas Riley, who was Irish by heritage and the ship’s navigator at the time, had hijacked the _Enterprise_ via the auxiliary control room and proceeded to regale the crew with several appallingly off-pitch renditions of “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen.” Aloud he said, “However, I did find good cause to regret the acuity of my hearing.”

“Regret, Mr. Spock?” asked Kirk, lifting an eyebrow. “Surely that’s a human emotion.”

T’Anna interposed. “A moment ago, Captain Kirk, you asked how Mr. Spock survived. I was not aware that possessing perfect pitch constituted a risk to one’s life.”

“No, no, Envoy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that literally,” Kirk corrected himself with a rueful chuckle. “But it _is_ a talent.”      

“It would seem that your talents are legion, Mr. Spock,” observed T’Anna, smiling at him softly. Turning to Kirk, she added, “I am most impressed with your musical knowledge as well, Captain Kirk. I did not expect the captain of a starship to speak the language of music so fluently. But perhaps that is not surprising—you are an explorer of new worlds, after all, and every musical composition is its own world.”

Kirk smiled. “You’re far too kind, Envoy. And incidentally, under the circumstances, I don’t think anyone would mind if you took a few more minutes to rest.”

“I am sufficiently recovered to proceed, gentlemen,” T’Anna replied. “Truly.”

“As you wish,” said Spock. He helped her to rise and guided her unhurriedly back to the main hall. As they neared the concert harp, her steps faltered.

“Mr. Spock—”

“What is it, Envoy?”

“Perhaps I speak with a certain lack of decorum, but—” She hesitated.

“Please continue.”

“Very well,” she said quietly. “On this night of all nights, I do not wish to part from you.”

He drew up short, recognizing in her words those he had spoken to Zarabeth five thousand years before. He was mystified. He had not shared his memories of Zarabeth with T’Anna, for he did not wish to give the envoy the mistaken impression that his mind was trapped in Vulcan’s barbaric, best-forgotten past. Logic told him that the exact phrasing of T’Anna’s statement had been rote, formulaic, a coincidence wrought of infinitesimal odds, but a coincidence nonetheless.

All the same, he wondered.


	5. Chapter 5

Spock held the door for T’Anna and followed her into the front room of her small but comfortably appointed guest suite. She scanned the room quickly. It met with her satisfaction: The sofa and chair were empty of books, the accompanying low table contained books and nothing else, and the small table beside the chair contained nothing at all. Even the icon on the near wall gleamed invitingly. She pressed a button on the wall-mounted audio player, and the final variations of Rachmaninoff’s rhapsody filled the air.

“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Spock?”

“Thank you, Envoy.” He seated himself in the chair that was perpendicular to the room’s small sofa.

“Do you like the music? Or do you find it an annoyance?”

“Hardly an annoyance, I assure you. This composition is Rachmaninoff’s ‘Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini,’ is it not? With the composer as pianist?”

“It is indeed,” she said, crossing to the sofa and settling herself on it. “May I confess to being pleasantly surprised that you recognized Rachmaninoff playing Rachmaninoff? This particular composition has long been a favorite of mine.”

“It is lovely, Envoy. The repeating theme imposes a logic I have always found pleasing.”

“As have I, Mr. Spock. I find a certain freedom in formalism, in following a predetermined pattern, an established framework, so that one can concentrate one’s energies on other aspects of a composition—whether one is creating it or listening to it. Or for that matter, reading it.” She sighed. “I must admit that when I listen to this composition and others like it, I find myself missing my homeworld very much, and yet I cannot seem to stop myself from listening.” She offered him a rueful smile. “I’m afraid I’ve just proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that I’m more human than Vulcan; contradictory behavior will out. And I imagine you were taught as I was—that such behavior is illogical and humans are therefore best avoided.”

“I believe that we had the same teachers, Envoy,” Spock said with what struck her as an overabundance of caution. “I too am partly human, but I take no pride in my human blood. On the contrary, I very much wish I did not possess it, for it introduces certain complexities and contradictions which I find inefficient. Rather than subject myself to them, I have chosen to follow the Vulcan way, which eschews them altogether.”

“If you will permit me the observation, Mr. Spock,” T’Anna said quietly, “I believe there is no shame in acknowledging or accepting one’s humanity despite its contradictions. For is acceptance not the Vulcan way?”

He regarded her for a long moment—so long that she feared she’d given offense. “Acceptance is indeed the Vulcan way,” he replied at last. “Your logic is unassailable.”

“Thank you, Mr. Spock.” But she had gone too far. She did possess more human blood than he did, after all, and he may well have decided to discard her because of it. And in any case, she certainly couldn’t tell him the full extent of what she’d had to accept over the years. Should he learn _that—_

“Envoy?”

She returned to the present with a start. “Do forgive me, Mr. Spock—I have been remiss in my hospitality. May I offer you something to drink? Sparkling water, tea, spritzer—?”

“Spritzer, Envoy?”

“A Terran invention, Mr. Spock. Spritzer is a carbonated beverage, typically fruit-flavored, that is kind to throats and rejuvenating to spirits. That which I can offer you was made from peach concentrate and is particularly lovely when enjoyed in company.”

He nodded. “I should be pleased to enjoy it with you, Envoy.”

“I only hope that you will enjoy it, Mr. Spock, even if its presentation may seem rather quaint.” She rose, retrieved a tall metal can from the refrigerator, and closed the door. “You see, I’ve discovered that food synthesizers, although serviceable under most circumstances, hardly do justice to carbonation.” She rinsed and dried the top of the can, poured the fizzy drink into two glasses, and handed Spock his glass before reseating herself.

“Thank you, Envoy.”

“You are very welcome, Mr. Spock.”

They sipped their drinks. “This libation is most refreshing, Envoy,” Spock said after a moment. “Allow me to compliment you on your excellent taste in beverages—and also to thank you for your hospitality.”

“Once again, Mr. Spock, you are very welcome. Indeed, you are more welcome than you appear to realize, for anyone who appreciates Rachmaninoff playing Rachmaninoff shall be an honored guest in my home always, no matter how small or temporary that home may be.”

She had known many such homes throughout her childhood. In the early days of her father’s teaching career, before he had attained his professorship in Vulcan ethnomusicology—itself a highly unusual specialty for a human—he had been obliged to conduct numerous field studies, each of which had necessitated a move to a new location. In fact, her father had met her mother, a singer, in the field and had continued his research and hence his travels for some years thereafter. Her Vulcan grandmother had worried that their peripatetic lifestyle, while typical enough among humans such as her own husband and son-in-law, made a harmonious mental state difficult if not impossible to achieve. She and her daughter—T’Anna’s mother—had tried their best to create the ambience of a home, however, and in large part had succeeded, for the walls of whatever abode they happened to live in at the time were always alight with music and laughter. But the light had dimmed when her father’s only brother, newly unemployed on Earth and sorely in need of a fresh start, had come to their home under sponsorship and brought his wife and children with him. And with their arrival, everything had changed.

_It is curious that I should recall my home of years past so vividly on this night. Or perhaps it is not curious at all._ She shivered inwardly and schooled her features. “May I ask, Mr. Spock—did you learn a great deal about my years on Vulcan when our minds touched?”

“I learned very little, Envoy.”

She exhaled silently; her efforts at concealment had been successful. She had learned during the mind-touch with Spock that he had once had a brief, tense encounter with a Romulan commander—an encounter that had involved much uncharacteristic prevarication on his part. “It is not a lie to keep the truth to oneself,” Spock had told the commander. And there was so very much that T’Anna had to keep to herself, that she could not share with anyone, not even Spock. She supposed that for the present, she could restrict herself to discussing commonalities, but even these were too often masks of illusion, thin veneers that cracked under the slightest of pressure. She need look no further than Leila Kalomi and the spores to find evidence of _that_. As much as she wanted to tell Spock the truth and have done with it, she didn’t dare make the attempt for any number of reasons. She put on the mask of lightness she’d had to wear so many times over the years. “Mr. Spock, do brace yourself, please, for I shall now shock you.”

“It is impossible to shock a Vulcan, Envoy, except via electrical charge.”

“Very well.” She took a deep breath. “One of my aunts was Klingon by marriage.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I possess no Klingon blood and”—she shivered—“certainly no Klingon loyalties.”

“Acknowledged, Envoy,” said Spock. “May I ask—?”

“You may.” _And I would have given you the explanation in any case._ “My father was Terran, human, but for many years he held a professorship in ethnomusicology on Vulcan, which is how I came to be born there.” She gave a light sigh. “My father was peaceable most of the time, although he could become volatile when provoked. His brother, my uncle . . . _he_ was all anger, all aggression. He met a Klingon woman during a jousting contest on a neutral planet, and when he went back to Earth, she went with him. My father called it love at first fight.” She smiled wryly. “For years they lived on Earth, until my uncle’s aggressiveness caught up with him. He was blacklisted; no employer on the planet would offer him work. My father, being a generous man, accepted his brother’s family under sponsorship, and they all came to Vulcan to live with us. In preparation for their arrival, I learned the normal Klingonee repertoire of pleasant greetings, but I’m afraid my aunt was less than impressed.” She summoned up another wry smile, this one for her own benefit as much as Spock’s. “Not long after that, my uncle’s aggressiveness caught up with him again. This time there were legal difficulties.” She paused. “Because of those difficulties, I was obliged to leave Vulcan. I very much regret that I cannot offer specifics as to why I left. I am constrained by Vulcan law from doing so.”

“Acknowledged,” he replied. “I am familiar with those requirements. Please know that I will not judge you for adhering to them. Indeed, it would be presumptuous of me to judge you at all.”

“Thank you for that, Mr. Spock.”

He nodded.

“And if I may make so bold as to answer a question you did _not_ ask”—her mouth quirked—“my mother was half-Vulcan, and _her_ mother, for whom I am named, was fully Vulcan. Because my grandfather and father were both human, I had a human surname at birth, but my mother and grandmother removed it from the registry in accordance with Vulcan convention.”

Spock nodded. “It would seem that our parentage is similar, Envoy. I am half-Vulcan, as your mother was, and my mother is human.”

A small silence fell between them in which Rachmaninoff’s rhapsody gave way to Liszt’s. She watched Spock’s gaze sharpening as he listened.

“Envoy, the instrument featured in this composition seems somewhat familiar, but not entirely so. I do not believe that it is either a harpsichord or a harp, but it does appear to contain elements of both.”

She smiled. “As I surmised, Mr. Spock, you have an excellent ear. What you are hearing is a cimbalom—the Hungarian counterpart to the dulcimer. It is indeed a musical cousin of both the harpsichord and the harp.”

“I see.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “May I ask how it is that your knowledge of Hungarian music is so extensive?”

She demurred with the tiniest shake of her head. “It is not so extensive as you suppose, Mr. Spock. What I know of it, I know because of my father.”

“The professor of ethnomusicology.”

She nodded. “During the course of his research, he observed multiple similarities between traditional Hungarian and Vulcan melodies. I was thus exposed to both types of music daily for many years, and it was my mother who taught me to sing.” _Before the darkness visited. Before I was torn asunder._ She shivered again. It was time to change the subject. “Mr. Spock, would you be willing to explore a rather unconventional topic?”

“I should be both willing and intrigued, Envoy. You have a most unconventional mind.”

She smiled fleetingly to hide her renewed apprehension. She had already broached two difficult subjects. In introducing a third one now, she was taking a considerable risk. She wished to reassure him that emotion and logic need not remain in perpetual conflict, but rather could coexist peacefully—not only within Vulcans in general, but also in the two of them in particular. She knew that if this effort at reassurance failed, they would surely part after the _pon farr_ had run its course. For she realized that if any barrier existed between them, it was Spock’s long-held belief that emotion and logic were anathema to each other. She took a bracing breath. _Well begun is half done._ She composed her features and regarded him with the outward serenity with which she had armored herself at many a negotiating table. “It has long been my experience, Mr. Spock, that the Vulcan code of behavior, much like that which is inculcated in most Terran males, expects far more of people—and of men in particular—than most of them are able to give.”

“In what way, Envoy?”

“In asking them to suppress their emotions, Mr. Spock. To state my premise quite simply, I submit that suppressing emotion is not only dangerously unhealthy, but also highly illogical.”

“But our training tells us that emotion and logic are polar opposites.”

_Our!_ Resolutely, she put that thought aside. “I do not believe that they are opposites. In fact, I believe that you and I were trained incorrectly, incompletely.” She sensed his objection. “I’ve found over the years that longevity is no guarantee of correctness, Mr. Spock.”

He waited.

“Would you agree with me that the tenets of logic are signposts that tell us when our reasoning is fallacious?”

“I would agree, Envoy.”

She nodded. “Emotions are also signposts. They show us the way to ourselves; they tell us who we are. You are a trained observer, Mr. Spock. Could you in good conscience ignore any signpost on this very fine starship?”

“Negative, Envoy. My duty would forbid it.”

“And that being the case, why would you ignore a signpost that points to the essence of who you are?”

“Because emotion is an indulgence, Envoy, and it is alien to me.”

She arched an eyebrow.

“I desire efficiency in all things, Envoy, and emotion is inefficient,” he explained. “Because it is inefficient, it is illogical. And because it is illogical, it is alien to me.”

“Is it so alien as that, Mr. Spock? Would you be the fine musician that you are if that were the case?”

“I should hardly call myself a fine musician, Envoy.”

“I must respectfully disagree with your assessment, Mr. Spock,” she said. “As does your captain, whose standards are high. As did tonight’s audience, if appearances can be believed. And for any musician, the ability to convey emotion to an audience is not an indulgence, but a necessity. You are an accomplished musician, Mr. Spock. Therefore, you are able to experience and express emotion. _Quod est demonstratum._ ”

He regarded her skeptically.

“Mr. Spock, when you are performing a meld, you are able to experience the emotions of others, are you not?”

“Indeed.”

“If you could not feel emotions yourself, how would you recognize or comprehend them in others?”

He had no answer for her.

“ _Quod est demonstratum,_ Mr. Spock,” she concluded, her voice and expression soft. “All of these things add up to indisputable proof that you and other Vulcans do indeed experience emotions—and further, that the expression of them is right and proper under many circumstances.”

“I once told my captain,” Spock said, “that emotions were considered distasteful among Vulcans.” He hesitated. “And for emotions to be considered distasteful, they must perforce exist.”

She searched his face. “Then you understand,” she said quietly.

“I do, Envoy.”

“You understand how our training portrays the relationship of logic to emotion inaccurately.”

“I do.”

“The Vulcan code of behavior is inherently flawed,” she said, and she found herself trembling slightly. She took a breath to recover herself. “It denies the existence of half our psyche and endeavors to assert that we are whole as a result. In so doing, it makes impossible demands of us all.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “In what regard, Envoy?”

“In many regards, Mr. Spock. Consider this: Vulcans are allowed to experience and convey emotion only through their hands, as happens in both music-making and melding. And in each of these cases, one’s experience of emotion is at least partly vicarious.”

Spock’s eyes registered interest. “You are perceptive, Envoy.”

“I—thank you, Mr. Spock.” A wave of fever shook her. _The flames pursue, as do my memories. If only I could ward them off, will them away._ She put her arms around herself, thinking to keep both fever and memories at bay, even as she knew the attempt was in vain.

“Envoy, are you quite well?”

_Where is my composure, that I should demonstrate weakness before a guest?_ She uncrossed her arms and breathed deeply. “I am well enough, Mr. Spock, and I appreciate your concern. Only—forgive me. I have had little occasion to participate in an exchange such as this one for many years; diplomatic protocol forbids the examination of sensitive topics like these. You think in a way that—that makes me miss those I left behind when I departed for Earth, when I was so young. I miss my grandmother,” she said suddenly, her voice breaking. “I miss her so, and her daughter, my mother—and my father also. I miss them all. I miss my home so, except that I am not allowed to miss it.”

“Not allowed—?”

“It serves nothing and no one, and me least of all, that I should miss my home so—it does not serve even my parents or grandparents, for they departed this life long ago! I cannot allow myself to miss what I have left behind, for I know full well that I could not have remained there; I endured too much for that. I had to find another home—or at the very least seek one out. And now, all these years later, I know that I shall never have a home. I shall never belong anywhere—not on Earth, certainly not on Vulcan, not anywhere I travel to bring peace. The irony pains me: I have no peace, nor have I had it for many years. Instead, I must fight as I have fought for so long, simply to live, to continue—”

She felt the tears coming. Impelled by the need to escape, she rose hastily, choking back sobs as she stumbled blindly toward the wall, bracing her hands against it only just in time to avoid injury. Arriving at her side, Spock put a hand on her shoulder. “Envoy—”

Mortified, she could not turn to face him, could not contemplate the humiliation that would surely follow. “Mr. Spock, please accept my apologies for my disgraceful display. Please do me the kindness of forgiving it—or at least ignoring it. I have been under a strain of late and—”

“T’Anna.” He hazarded her name gently. “T’Anna, please turn around and look at me.”

She did not move.

“Please.”

Warily, she complied.

“There is nothing to forgive.”

“But surely—if emotion is an indulgence—”

“There is nothing to forgive,” he repeated. “Please believe that.”

She could only look at him.

“I accept you as you are,” he said.

_He_ would _say that_ , she thought, _but only because acceptance is the Vulcan way._

“I accept you because I have chosen to live as a Vulcan,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “But I also accept you because you are a person of honor whom I wish to honor.”

“As I you.” And then, tentatively: “Spock. Thank you.”

He nodded. She was suddenly aware of the silence between them, aware of the electric stillness that crackled like the beginnings of a storm. Belatedly, she realized that they were standing very close together, that his hand remained on her shoulder. She reached up as if to offer a reciprocal touch, but he forestalled the gesture by taking her hand and kissing it. A pang of need shuddered through her. Spock guided her to the sofa and helped her to sit down, even as another shiver coursed through her body. He seated himself beside her and took both of her hands in his.

“T’Anna,” he asked her softly, “are you unwell again?”

“No, Spock. Not as I was”—she lowered her eyes—“earlier tonight.”

“Is your condition a matter of mutual concern?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“That concern being the flames . . . ?”

She nodded.

“They are indeed,” he noted quietly, “our mutual concern. For they pursue us both.”

She looked up at him again, willing him to comprehend.

“Do you wish to resolve this—concern—together?”

_Well begun is half done._ “I do.”

“T’Anna, are you certain?”

“I am, Spock. Know that I am. Only—there is something I must tell you. It is only right that you should know.”

“Please tell me, T’Anna. I will not judge you.” She hesitated. “Truly.”

_Yet someone else was judged because of me._ She took a deep breath. “I do not come to you whole. Forgive me if you can.”

“T’Anna,” he replied softly, “I think I know the reason for your discomfiture. It is unwarranted. Please believe me, there is nothing to forgive.”

She could scarcely credit what she was hearing. Vulcan mores were strict in many respects. It was not uncommon for Vulcan males, especially those from prominent families, to insist that their prospective mates be virgins, even during the _pon farr_. Kirk had told her that Spock was an exception to many rules; she could only hope that the virginity rule was one of them.

“I remain willing, T’Anna—more than willing. Please know that.” He brushed his fingers across her face. “May I?”

She nodded. She realized at once that he had been expertly trained, for as he mapped the lattice of energy points on her face, his fingers traveled as if by instinct to the places where the most tension and pain lay dormant. Working deftly, he increased the pressure by cautious increments till she felt her facial muscles relaxing, their long-held strain departing. Sparks of energy flared and burst within her. Rivers of sensation washed through her, approaching her still core, wherein waited those elemental flames which could not lightly be quenched. _For many years I fought against such flames as these, but now I do not wish to do so. Indeed, I very much wish otherwise._

“T’Anna.” His breathing was ragged. “Is this truly what you wish?”

“Truly, Spock. Very much.” But her eyes shone with tears.

“T’Anna,” he asked, “why do you cry?”

“Because you are so gentle. Because I am sad that it took us so very long to meet. Because I am so happy that now . . . we are here.”

He could not speak.

“I am so very, very glad that we are here, now, together—you cannot know how much. Spock, how is it that you—?” Suddenly she was overcome, racked by the sobs of half a lifetime lost. From force of long habit, she clung to quotation: _All is healed, all is health . . . Hearts all whole. Sure on this shining night I weep for wonder . . . Spock, I shall never be healed, for it is too late. I am always, always too late, even for you, especially for you, although I do not wish to part from you . . ._

She found that she was in his arms, that he was soothing her, murmuring her name, kissing away her tears. She found that he was removing her jewels, then her hairpins one by one, smoothing her dark hair as it unwound itself in satin coils, kissing oceans of tears away _. . . I weep for wonder . . ._ kissing her, blessing her with gentlest care that called forth a like response from her, blessing her with the flames that consumed them both.

Suddenly she felt as if she were observing events from a great height. She saw the two of them moving to her bed with its sumptuous sky-bright quilt, folding the quilt and putting it carefully aside. She saw them turning down the bed, adjusting its many pillows, seating themselves, embracing. More sparks of energy flared within her as the music of the cimbalom reached a coda of exultant notes that shimmered in trembling gold before them. Was it possible to be closer to him than she was, safe in his arms as she was? She was not certain. She would attempt to discover the truth of it regardless. She embraced him desperately, thanking him with kisses, with salt tears as he responded in kind.

She was a cimbalom, a harp, a voice with energy unspent. She was a constellation, the stars of her neurons joined by ley lines of flame. She floated unfathomably deep in space as one, four, forty voices broke in waves over them, commingling their bodies and their souls on the great ocean of what voices could neither sing nor say.

Her body was taut. Words were not enough, nor silence sufficient. “Spock,” she whispered, his name an invocation. He responded in like fashion. They regarded each other with something like agony, clinging on desperately.

_Always touched. Never parted._

No words remained. Touch was all.

* * *

Later, after the notes of the cimbalom had shimmered in falling sparks, after the ocean of majestic voices had receded, after a second chorus had quenched with its soothing balm of sound the remainder of their flames, they rested, quiet together.

“Spock, you make of my body a star chart.”

“I never expected to discover you, T’Anna,” he replied as he smoothed her hair.

“I am most grateful for the occasion, Spock.”

“As am I, T’Anna—very much so.”

But she could see in his eyes that something was amiss. “What is it that troubles you so?”

He hesitated. “I do not wish to cause you harm.”

“I had concluded as much, Spock,” she noted, quiet humor in her eyes. “I shall construe no harm where none is meant.”

“Thank you, T’Anna.”

“All is well with me, Spock.” _I hope._ “Please tell me what is troubling you.”

“Our training, yours and mine, holds that love is illogical, an illusion, a chimera.”

She regarded him thoughtfully. “Shall we return to a previous subject?”

“Certainly.”

“You and I were trained incorrectly, incompletely.”

He waited.

“What in the beginning many, including the teachers who trained us, call love—is not love. It is infatuation only. The bodies may have joined, but the minds have not yet touched. The great mysteries have not yet been revealed. That type of connection is illusory, transitory. Ours is not, for we joined in many ways before this moment. When the voices of your harp joined mine, when our minds touched, when you brought me solace first in Sickbay and later in the anteroom—all these things were the beginning of our oneness. And now . . . now you belong to me and I to you.”

“Leila,” he murmured, as if to himself. “How did you . . . ?”

This was disconcerting, to say the least. “Spock, is something amiss?”

“Nothing is amiss, T’Anna,” he said, smoothing her hair again. “Do not fear. All is well with me—and with us.”

“Then—?”

“Leila was someone I . . . knew some years ago. I recognized her words in yours.”

Tentatively, she said, “I only hope I did them justice.”

“Very much so,” he assured her.

They were silent for a moment.

“Incidentally,” she said, “love is the most logical impulse of all.”

“T’Anna, how can that possibly be true?”

“And God said, ‘I will make Adam an helpmeet, for it is not good that man should be alone,’” she quoted. “Not man, not woman, not Vulcan, not half-Vulcan”—she looked at him softly—“not one-fourth Vulcan. Love is logical because when two people are truly one, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. _Quod est demonstratum._ ”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “‘May we together become greater than the sum of both of us.’ Those are the words of Surak—and my heritage.”

“They bespeak my wish also.”

Once again, they needed no more words.


	6. Chapter 6

McCoy took an experimental sip of his drink and put down his glass with a grimace. “Blasted food synthesizers—I don’t think they’ll ever get iced tea right!” Southern to his core, he had discovered long ago that even taking his meals in the captain’s quarters, bright and spacious as they were by Starfleet standards, did nothing to improve the taste of badly made iced tea.

“Talk to the galley chief,” was Kirk’s distracted reply.

“What, again? You told me that last time!” He regarded Kirk more closely. “You’re a million miles away, Jim. What’s the trouble?”

“It’s no trouble, Bones.” Kirk hesitated. “It’s Spock. He’s—”

“He’s what, Jim?” McCoy looked alarmed. “He isn’t having a relapse, is he?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that.” Kirk shook his head. “You’re not going to believe this.”

“ _What_ am I not going to believe? Just _tell_ me!” He softened. “You’ll feel better if you do.”

“All right, I’ll tell you, but only if you promise not to hit the ceiling.”

“I promise.” He spooned up a mouthful of goulash and eyed Kirk expectantly.

Kirk gave a resigned sigh. “Spock’s in love.”

McCoy’s spoon clattered into his bowl. “What do you mean, Spock’s in love? He can’t possibly be in love, Jim! He’s a Vulcan! That’s the wildest thing I’ve ever heard!”

“He’s half-human, Bones.”

“I’m not denying he is, but he doesn’t own up to it, and he certainly doesn’t act like it!”

“He’s in love,” insisted Kirk. “I’m sure of it. In fact, I’d stake my commission on it.”

“Then you’d better get ready to resign. Spock can’t be in love. That’s impossible.”

Kirk regarded him levelly.

“Okay, Jim, let’s say you’re right. How do you know Spock’s in love?”

“You’re an observant man, Bones—didn’t you notice how they were looking at each other during the musicale?”

“Well, sure, but that was just the fever talking.”

“If that’s all it was, why didn’t he return to duty the next day? Weren’t you the one reminding me about Lian Jamison?”

McCoy nodded.

“Spock never took leave after that first afternoon, remember?”

“Sure I remember. He worked his normal shift after that. What are you trying to tell me, Jim?”

“I’m trying to tell you that if Spock weren’t in love with the envoy, he’d be on the bridge right now. But he isn’t, and that has to mean something. I know Spock.”

“I know Spock too, Jim, and I’m telling you, there is no way he’s in love. Once the fever breaks—”

“Once the fever breaks, things may very well be different for all of us, Bones,” Kirk said quietly. “Vulcan or not, he’s in love. Don’t spoil it for him. That’s an order.”

“I understand, Jim.”

“See that you do.”

* * *

 

After finishing his meal, McCoy navigated the long maze of corridors that led to his domain. At last he rounded the corner that fronted the entrance to Sickbay, muttering to himself. “It can’t last—Spock doesn’t have it in him! Now granted, it _looked_ like he fell for her, but that was the fever talking! Once that’s over with, he won’t even _want_ to remember what happened!”

“Your assessment is flawed, Doctor,” said Spock mildly from the doorway.

McCoy jumped. “ _Spock!_ What are you trying to do, put _me_ in here as the patient? Where’d you come from, anyway?”

“I was escorting our guest to Sickbay for the follow-up examination you requested, Doctor. We reasoned that because you could perform your examination nowhere else, we should await your arrival here rather than disturbing you with a hail. However, I very much regret that we are now too late for your ministrations today. Were we to remain, we would surely miss the noon concert. And since we are scheduled to perform in it, I fear we must take our leave of you, at least for the present.”

T’Anna rose from the chair she had been occupying. She was smiling warmly, and her eyes sparkled. She walked over to stand beside Spock, who hovered in the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back, his demeanor watchful as always. McCoy looked thoughtfully from Spock’s dress uniform to T’Anna’s formal gown and jewels.

“Shall we go, Envoy?” asked Spock, offering her his arm.

She took it. “Certainly, Mr. Spock. Thank you.” And to McCoy: “I wish you an enjoyable day, Doctor.”

They moved off. McCoy stared after them in astonishment. _So much for the two of them not lasting. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Spock’s eyes look_ soft _before—not unless you count the time he was petting Gary Seven’s cat_.

* * *

 

The boatswain’s whistle sounded. “Bridge to Ambassador T’Anna.”

She rose and walked to the intercom. “T’Anna here.”

“Ambassador, the governor of Opalescia Tau is asking to speak with you on the diplomatic channel. Shall I connect you?”

“Please do, Lieutenant. Direct the message to my quarters. Thank you.”

“Acknowledged. Bridge out.”

T’Anna reseated herself and pressed a button; Thomas Lutton’s image glowed into view. With his sandy hair, trim figure, and sun-bronzed skin, he looked much the same as he had when they’d last met, but the worry in his eyes troubled her. He was a former Starfleet captain with a sanguine disposition. If he was summoning her, something had to be very wrong.

“Ambassador, I realize you’re on your way to our planet for some leave time, and I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“That’s quite all right, Governor. How may I help?”

“We have a situation here, Ambassador, and it seems to be getting out of hand. Not to put too fine a point on it, but we’re on the edge of a riot.”

This was troubling indeed. “Tell me.”

“Ambassador, as you know, we take our peace seriously—so seriously that none of us own or carry weapons. We’re new to the Federation, and until six months ago, farming was our sole source of income—and not much of one at that—until we figured out how to play host to starship personnel on shore leave.”

T’Anna nodded. She knew all this, having participated in the negotiations that had culminated in the admission of Opalescia Tau to the Federation. “Go on.”

“Our livelihood was secured, but at a price. Over the past few months, we’ve seen an influx of Federation and Klingon officers and crew on leave beaming down with everything from phasers to disruptor pistols to every kind of ceremonial knife you can think of—with predictable results. Weapons breed wars, Ambassador.” He paused. “A week and a half ago, two Klingons ambushed two Federation security guards who were on shore leave and attacked them with knives. See, one of the Klingons claimed the redshirts insulted his wife. Both guards ended up in the hospital. Their captain beamed down to collect them, and he was none too happy about it, I can tell you. And last week, the owner of our most popular bar witnessed a knife fight between two Klingons and a human. The human won, if you can believe that, and the three of them shared a perfectly amicable meal afterwards. I’ve never heard anything like it.” He shook his head. “The owner told me they didn’t say a word about it to anyone. Klingon honor, you understand.”

“I do.” _Better than you realize._ She shivered.

“The next night, thirty Klingons—I repeat, _thirty,_ three-zero—showed up at the bar. Every last one of them had a weapon, and every last one of them was bound and determined to get back at the owner for letting the incident happen. Truth was, he didn’t have time to stop it—or so he said, and I believe him. The fight was over in less than a minute, apparently, and no one was seriously hurt, but the Klingons didn’t care about that. After the bar closed on that second night, they ambushed him—the owner, I mean—and held him hostage until the police got there. Some Federation officers showed up with phasers right about then. The Klingons cried foul and claimed Federation collusion, the Federation officers gave as good as they got, and it’s a wonder the riot didn’t happen then and there.” He sighed heavily. “We need help, Ambassador, and we need it fast. If you’re willing to combine business with pleasure—well, I’d appreciate it, because I’m not sure how long I can keep this ticking time bomb from going off.”

She thought about this. “Forgive me, Governor, but it’s been my experience that the relationship between Vulcans and Klingons is hardly collegial.”

“Granted, but I’m afraid I don’t have any other options. See, both of my diplomats are occupied on other planets. One of them had a family emergency. The other one is trying to settle a dispute between the Andorians and the Tellarites, and I think you can imagine how well _that_ ’s going.” Lutton’s grimace was eloquent.

“I understand, Governor. I will be more than happy to help you as soon as we arrive; I give you my word on that. I’m afraid we’ll have to spend some time docked at a starbase because the warp drive needs to be repaired, but I’ll let you know as soon as those repairs are complete and we are en route.”

“Thank you, Ambassador; I’d appreciate that very much. I’ll plan to hold a meeting in a day or so. Feel free to invite anyone you’d like.”

“Thank you, Governor. May I ask some colleagues from the _Enterprise_ to join us?”

“Why, certainly. Does one of them happen to be Bones—I mean Leonard—McCoy?”

“Indeed, Governor.” She was surprised. “May I ask how the two of you know each other?”

“From Starfleet Academy. We graduated just a few years apart.”

McCoy and the governor were both Southerners, T’Anna knew. In fact, the colleague who had introduced her to Lutton had a familial connection, albeit a distant one, to the chief surgeon of the _Enterprise._

“How’s he doing these days?” Lutton was asking. “I haven’t heard much from him of late.”

“He’s doing very well indeed,” she said. “The other day, he described himself as being in fine fettle.”

“Very good; I look forward to catching up with him. I have a couple of Klingon representatives in mind for this meeting. I’ll also ask Ambassador Sarek to sit in, but I know you better than I know him, so I’ll trust you to lead the negotiations.”

“I understand, Governor. Thank you for your confidence in me.”

“You’re more than welcome; I’ll see you soon. Give my best to Bones. Lutton out.” The viewscreen went blank.

T’Anna wondered how a human could defeat two Klingons in simultaneous close combat. She thought she knew the answer.

And she didn’t like it at all.


	7. Chapter 7

The chief engineer had been due to return to their suite on the starbase some time ago, but his continued absence came as no surprise to Spock. The _Enterprise_ had docked that morning for warp drive repairs, but in a development that was lamentably typical of such projects, the elapsed time had far exceeded the initial estimate. Morning had given way to afternoon, and now dusk was falling. Spock and T’Anna stood in the window, surreptitiously holding hands as they watched the lights of evening wink into life. McCoy, seated beside Kirk on the common room’s well-pillowed sofa, was exhibiting his normal level of excitability. “Where in blazes is Scotty? It’s high time we ate something—let’s get this show on the road!”

“There’s no hurry, Bones; the commissary never closes,” Kirk said. “I’ll grant you, their service is slow, but we certainly won’t starve.”

“I know that, Jim, but Scotty told us he’d be here half an hour ago, and I’m ravenous!”

“Surely _ravenous_ is not the correct medical term, Doctor.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Spock! I’m too hungry to split hairs with you! And of _course_ someone forgot to restock the food synthesizer in here—just our luck!”

“Luck had little to do with it, Doctor. Carelessness is a far more likely culprit.”

“Is that your unbiased scientific opinion, Spock?”

A raised voice from the far end of the corridor drew Spock’s attention. Apparently McCoy was not the sole dissatisfied member of their party, if Mr. Scott’s agitated protests could be taken as conclusive proof of dissatisfaction. Even from several meters away, it was patently obvious that the chief engineer was returning in high dudgeon. Moreover, judging by the number of approaching footfalls, he wasn’t alone.

T’Anna had heard him too. “Spock, can that possibly be Mr. Scott?” she asked softly in Vulcan. “And in company besides?”

“So it would seem, T’Anna,” Spock replied in the same language. “In my estimation,” he said as they crossed the room together, “his current decibel level rivals that of the ship’s surgeon at his most excitable. At present, however, I should guess that the chief engineer is not so much excited as angry.”

Presently Scott himself appeared in the doorway of the suite. Two security officers followed in his wake, escorting a mechanic who—unaccountably—wore a bandanna over his nose and mouth.

“Sit him doon, lads, and straightaway!” The Scotsman gestured to a corner that held several vacant chairs. The guards obliged him but remained standing themselves.

Spock arched an eyebrow. _Who is this man, and why has he been brought here under guard?_

Scott was red-faced with fury. “Ye’ll no’ be harming my bairns!”On inquiry, Spock had learned that the term _bairns_ referred generally to children and specifically, in Scott’s case, to the engines of the _Enterprise_. “Ye’ll no’ be free of me or mine till Loch Lomond turns to lava or the Klingon Empire wins a peace prize, one of the two!” He turned to the guards. “The pair of you, don’t let him out of your sight, or I’ll not answer for the consequences! You’d best search his belt pack too! He may have been after more than our warp drive!”

“Our warp drive?” asked Kirk, rising. “Scotty, what—”

The chief engineer turned away from the mechanic, the better to answer Kirk’s question—and that was Scott’s mistake. The guards were quick, but the mechanic was quicker. He sprang to his feet, landing the first guard an impressive clout to the jaw and kicking the second guard aside. Kirk waded into the fray and managed to get in one substantial punch before being thrown into Scott’s arms. Spock, moving by stealth, positioned himself just outside the mechanic’s line of sight. The man dashed forward, but his efforts to escape were thwarted when Scott grabbed his ankles. A moment later, Spock administered the tranquilizing neck pinch that was one of his homeworld’s trademarks. It proved highly efficacious, for the mysterious man promptly toppled unconscious to the floor. Both guards paused from dusting themselves off to stare in surprise.

“Gentlemen,” admonished Spock, “use this time wisely. Restrain the prisoner and search his belt pack as instructed.”

“Yes, sir,” said the guards, with varying degrees of sheepishness. They lifted the mechanic from the floor, seated him in the chair from which he had risen, and handcuffed him to it.

“Be careful now, lads,” said Scott. “He might try to bolt again. See to it he stays put!” He crossed his arms and eyed the mechanic defiantly, as if daring him to rise.

Spock helped Kirk up. “Captain, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. Spock, except for a little bruised pride.” He touched his chin ruefully. “Whoever this is, he’s almost as bad as Finnegan.”

Spock arched an eyebrow.

“I knew him at Starfleet Academy, Mr. Spock. Be glad you didn’t. He might have worn out that neck pinch of yours.”

“That would have been most unlikely, Captain.”

“I’m all right, Mr. Spock. See to our guest.” Kirk seated himself in a corner chair well out of the prisoner’s reach.

“Acknowledged.” Spock turned back to find T’Anna watching him. She had retreated a few paces, but she remained standing for no reason he could discern, and her gaze was speculative. McCoy had assumed a protective stance at her side.

The guards, meanwhile, had confiscated the prisoner’s belt pack and were now examining it. Spock watched them extract a quantity of dilithium crystal so sizable that Scott whistled. “I never saw the like! He might have sold this lot to the Romulans—or heaven help us, the Klingons! And look here—there’s Klingon currency to prove it! I wonder how he came by that.”

“Sir,” one of the guards said quietly, “there’s more.” He handed the engineer a sheaf of translucent onionskins crisscrossed with blue lines.

Scott riffled through them and whistled again. “Schematics for the _Enterprise,_ hiding in his belt pack where they’ve no right to be! We’ve a traitor in our midst, Captain!” He gestured to the mechanic, who was beginning to stir. “First he tries to make haggis of our warp drive, and now this!”

T’Anna moved forward as Scott turned to the man.

“Ye’ll no’ go anywhere without me knowing about it first, my lad! The moment we learn your name, I’ll have you in the dock for attempted sabotage, theft, espionage, treason, and now assault—ye’ll see if I don’t!” He snatched off the man’s bandanna, affording the group an unobstructed view of the would-be saboteur’s face. “Tell us your name, young whelp, if you’ve the belly for it!”

But T’Anna, suddenly pale, spared him the necessity of replying. “Tamsil Thomas Baldwin,” she addressed him hoarsely, “depart at once. You are under seal.”

“Belay that,” snapped Kirk. “He’s not going anywhere without my authorization.”

Spock caught T’Anna as her knees buckled. He carried her toward the sofa as McCoy asked, “Under _seal,_ Spock? What is that, some sort of arcane Vulcan ritual?”

Spock was otherwise occupied. “Pillows, please, Doctor.”

T’Anna stirred in Spock’s arms. He lifted her down to the sofa as McCoy adjusted its pillows. When she was settled, Spock knelt before her and rubbed her hands. Meanwhile, McCoy left the room, returning moments later with a glass of water, which he offered to the envoy. She sipped it cautiously. Spock was relieved to observe that her color did not alter for the worse. He was further relieved when her tricorder results showed normal.

“Please forgive me,” T’Anna said presently. “I never thought—” She shuddered; Spock patted her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Spock, Dr. McCoy,” she continued. “It is most unfortunate that Mr. Baldwin decided to come here today. He and I are parties to a legal matter of some years’ standing, and I fear he bears me a grudge because of it. And I gather,” she added in Vulcan for Spock’s ear alone, “that he is more than troubled.”

Spock’s gaze flicked to the mechanic. T’Anna’s assessment of him appeared to have been correct; the fire in his eyes was unnerving.

Scott, meanwhile, was in full flood. “Ye’ll be in prison for this, my lad, make no mistake! I saw you plain as plain, trying to sabotage my warp drive! Not to mention stealing our schematics, resisting arrest, assaulting Starfleet officers, and”—he nodded toward T’Anna—“frightening a Federation envoy half out of her wits!”

“And what if I did?” Baldwin demanded to know. “I had my reasons!”

Spock gave him a hard look; Baldwin flinched.

“Is it that tune ye’re playing now, my lad? Will ye sing it so loudly at a general court-martial?”

“I’ll tell the whole starbase if I have to!”

“I hardly think so,” said T’Anna quietly.

Scott stared at her.

“He is not permitted to speak of the reason he attempted to sabotage the warp drive of the _Enterprise,_ Mr. Scott,” the envoy explained. “And neither am I, unfortunately. His reasons pertain to the legal matter I mentioned a moment ago, a matter which is under seal. That seal was imposed for the protection of all parties involved, of whom I am one and he another. I am sorry, Mr. Scott. You are permitted to testify as to _how_ he attempted to sabotage the warp drive, but I very much regret that neither he nor I can testify as to _why_.”

“ _What?_ ” Scott’s color, which had returned to normal during the intervening exchanges, grew dangerously red again. “Ye must be joking—either that or daft!”

“She is neither, Mr. Scott,” replied Spock. “And you will kindly refrain from insulting her.” He gave his colleague a level look. “She deserves considerably more courtesy than you saw fit to display toward her a moment ago. I sometimes believe that she has been apportioned a more generous measure of sanity than”—he looked fleetingly at McCoy—“a great many of us are privileged to enjoy.”

T’Anna interposed. “Mr. Spock, please be assured that I bear no malice toward Mr. Scott.” She turned to the chief engineer. “Mr. Scott, the rule of the seal is peculiar to the Vulcan legal system.”

“It’s peculiar all right,” muttered Scott.

Wisely, T’Anna ignored this. “Matters under seal can never be mentioned by any of the parties so constrained—not even in a court of law, unfortunately. In addition, people who are parties to opposing sides of a case are strictly prohibited from communicating with one another in any way. Hence, Mr. Baldwin’s very presence in this room is a contravention of Vulcan law.”

“Then how are we supposed to convict him of attempted sabotage? There is no way he’d be convicted without the court knowing why!”

“Mr. Scott, were you the only witness to the incident?” Spock asked.

“No, Mr. Spock. I can bring five other witnesses to give evidence, and there’s footage as well.”

“Very good, Mr. Scott. Then your case will hardly require corroborative testimony as to motive. In the meantime, I suggest that you withdraw your ill-judged assessment of the envoy’s state of mind.”

The Scotsman needed no encouragement. “I’m sorry, lass. I should have stopped my mouth sooner—only he did almost scupper the warp drive! After a day like this one, I think _I’m_ daft!”

“Please do not worry, Mr. Scott. All’s well that ends well, is it not?”

“Aye.”

“Everything would be a whole lot better if we could go eat something one of these decades!” grumbled McCoy.

“Is the warp drive fully operational?” Kirk asked the chief engineer.

“Aye, Captain. One hundred percent capacity restored, small thanks to this young whelp!” He gestured in Baldwin’s direction.

“That’s good enough for me,” Kirk said, walking to the intercom. “Suite one-two-four to security chief.”

“Security chief here. Go ahead, one-two-four.”

“This is Captain James T. Kirk of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_. I am instructing your personnel to escort Mr. Tamsil Thomas Baldwin from this suite to security confinement quarters immediately. Bind him over for general court-martial on charges of attempted sabotage, theft, espionage, resisting arrest, and assault. Expedite the court-martial and take every precaution, my authority.”

“Acknowledged.”

“Thank you, Security Chief. Kirk out.” Then: “Scotty, did you submit all names and statements to Security for processing?”

“Aye, that I did, sir. At once,” he added with grim emphasis.

“Very good, Scotty.”

After the guards had led the protesting Baldwin away, Kirk glanced around the room. “Is everyone ready for dinner? Envoy? Mr. Spock?”

Everyone was. As the five of them made their way to the commissary, McCoy turned to T’Anna. “Are you feeling better, ma’am? You looked like you saw a ghost back there.”

Her face clouded. “In a way, Doctor, I suppose I did.”


	8. Chapter 8

As she surveyed the courtroom, T’Anna thought fancifully that it resembled nothing so much as a Terran pavement garden. Nearly everything in the room was gray—gray walls, gray carpeting, silver-gray desks—and almost the only spots of color came from the dress uniforms worn by many of those in attendance. In keeping with these monochromatic surroundings loomed the solid, stolid presence of Commodore Theo Bland, whose monotone and expressionless face suited his name almost too perfectly. “This court is now in session,” he told the assembled company. To Baldwin he added: “I have appointed as members of this court engineering supervisors Jan Burkel and Luke Budot to assist me in trying your case. I draw your attention to the fact that you may request substitute members if you feel that those named harbor a prejudiced attitude toward either you or this case. Have you any objections, Mr. Baldwin?”

“No, sir.” But his voice was surly.

“Do you consent to the service of Lieutenant Areel Shaw as prosecuting officer and to mine as president of this court?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. How do you plead?”

“Guilty, sir. You don’t need to try me. “

There was a ripple in the courtroom.

Baldwin thrust out his chin. “I’ll tell you exactly why I did what I did. I’ll tell the whole starbase if I have to!”

There was a louder ripple.

“Silence in court,” said Bland. “Please submit yourself to computer identification, Mr. Baldwin.”

As Baldwin passed her on his way to the witness chair, T’Anna read the eagerness in his eyes and trembled inwardly. Spock, evidently realizing that something was amiss, took her hand surreptitiously—a comforting gesture for which she was grateful. Moreover, the seating was comfortable. It was not so in every courtroom, as she knew from her experience on Vulcan. That planet’s halls of justice were akin to monasteries, so sparsely were they furnished.

Baldwin seated himself in the witness chair, relinquished his data chip, and rested his hand over the sensor that effectively transformed the court computer into a polygraph machine.

“Tamsil Thomas Baldwin, serial number E142-832BA. Service rank: lieutenant, junior-grade. Position: mechanic. Current assignment: Starbase Engineering. Refer to medical files for additional information.”

McCoy, who was seated at T’Anna’s left, stirred, and she knew why. Notations of this sort signaled a history of mental illness. Apparently her intuition regarding Baldwin’s mental state had been accurate. She found herself wishing it hadn’t.

Bland said, “Computer, state all charges and specifications against Tamsil Thomas Baldwin, late of Vulcan, currently assigned to Starbase Engineering.”

“Charges: attempted espionage, theft, sabotage, treason, resisting arrest, and assault.”

 _Treason?_ T’Anna queried silently. Surely not. Surely there had been some mistake. Possessing Klingon currency, while not precisely commonplace for a mechanic on a Federation starbase, hardly constituted a crime, much less an act of treason.

“Specifications: First, that in concealing schematics of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_ about his person, Tamsil Thomas Baldwin did seek to commit espionage against the United Federation of Planets. Second, that in concealing dilithium crystals about his person, Tamsil Thomas Baldwin did attempt to perform a theft of Federation property. Third, that Tamsil Thomas Baldwin did attempt to sabotage the warp drive of the U.S.S. _Enterprise._ Fourth, that by the attempted sabotage of the U.S.S. _Enterprise,_ Tamsil Thomas Baldwin did interfere with the orderly commencement of negotiations upon the Federation planet Opalescia Tau and through this interference did commit the act of treason.”

In other words, T’Anna reflected, Baldwin was guilty of bad luck. Even if he’d known nothing at all about the Opalescia Tau negotiations at the time he tampered with the warp drive, the charge of treason was valid nonetheless—and because it was, he stood to pay for his vendetta against her with his life. She remembered one of Spock’s observations via mind-touch: “Those who hate and fight must stop themselves.” But Tamsil, born of two aggressive parents, had never been taught how to stop. She felt the chill of desolation take hold. Spock must have sensed her discomfiture, for he interlaced her fingers more securely in his own.

“Fifth, that Tamsil Thomas Baldwin did resist arrest following his capture by Starfleet officers and crew. Sixth, that in the act of resisting arrest, Tamsil Thomas Baldwin did commit acts of assault on the bodies of Starfleet officers and crew and a Federation diplomat. To all recorded charges and specifications, what is the plea?”

“Guilty.”

“Let me remind you, Mr. Baldwin,” said Bland, with a flicker of animation in his eyes, “that treason is a capital crime in the Federation.”

“I don’t take issue with the Federation. I take issue with _her!_ ” He indicated T’Anna with an accusatory jerk of the chin.

She schooled her features into impassivity. _He wishes to put_ me _on trial today, and I cannot blame him for that wish._

A muscle twitched in Bland’s jaw. “If you subject this court to further outbursts, Mr. Baldwin,” the commodore said, “you will be held in contempt. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you request an attorney, Mr. Baldwin?”

“No, sir.”

“May I remind you once again that this is a capital case?”

“I am aware of that, sir. I waive legal representation.”

“I can see we’ll have to do this the hard way,” Bland muttered to himself. In a louder voice he said, “Mr. Mark Anniston, approach the bench.”

A slim young man with strawberry blond hair and an eager expression followed Bland’s instructions.

“Mr. Anniston, are you the at-large defender assigned to this case?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Baldwin, do you believe that Mr. Anniston harbors a grievance toward you or this case?”

“No, sir. I never met him until now. And I don’t want—“

“You are not yet in contempt, Mr. Baldwin,” said Bland. “Try to stay that way.”

Baldwin subsided.

“You may proceed, Lieutenant Shaw. Call your first witness.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. I call Mr. Spock.”

T’Anna regarded Spock with apprehension. He patted her hand before he rose and took his place in the witness chair. He slid his data card into the computer and put his hand on the polygraph sensor. The machine recited the litany of identification: “Spock, serial number S179-276SP. Service rank: commander. Position: first officer, science officer. Current assignment: U.S.S. _Enterprise_. Commendations: Vulcanian Scientific Legion of Honor. Awards of valor: twice decorated by Starfleet Command.”

“Good day, Commander Spock,” said Shaw. “Your homeworld is Vulcan, correct?”

“Affirmative.”

“Are you aware of the Vulcan rule of the seal?”

“My familiarity with it is not extensive, Lieutenant, as I am neither an attorney nor a civil advocate. However, I am aware that it restricts communication among all opposing parties involved in a legal proceeding after a ruling has been issued. The restriction on intraparty communication is lifelong for everyone concerned.”

“Is this restriction commonly known?”

“Affirmative. Every resident of Vulcan, whether citizen or outworlder, is made aware of this rule upon involvement in a legal proceeding.“

“Does this restriction apply when someone testifies in a separate case years later?”

“Affirmative.”

“Did the plaintiff mention the rule of the seal when the defendant accosted her on the starbase?”

“Affirmative.”

“Thank you, Commander.” She turned to Bland. “Your Honor, I move that Tamsil Thomas Baldwin be prohibited from testifying on the grounds that doing so will almost certainly contravene the provisions of Vulcan law.”

“Request denied,” said Bland. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” T’Anna noted with interest that Commodore Bland suddenly seemed much less bland. She thought she understood the reason for the transformation; she herself had long known the usefulness of wearing—or dropping—a noncommittal mask when the need arose.

“And now, Mr. Spock, would you take us through the events that led up to this court-martial?”

He obliged her.

“No further questions,” said Shaw at last. “Your witness, Counselor.”

“Thank you,” said Anniston. He stepped close to the witness chair—too close, T’Anna thought. “Isn’t it true that you rendered the defendant unconscious?”

“Affirmative. I was attempting—”

The young man’s expression turned sly. “And when you render someone unconscious, isn’t that considered an assault?”  
“Objection!” Shaw protested. “Mr. Spock is not on trial today, Your Honor.”

“Sustained,” replied Bland. “Mr. Anniston, do you have any other _pertinent_ questions for this witness?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Bland nodded. “Proceed.”

“Mr. Spock, on the day the crimes allegedly took place, did you or anyone else in suite one-two-four of this starbase mention the impending Opalescia Tau negotiations in the presence of the defendant?”

“Negative.”

“And as we’re all aware, the charge of treason relates only to those negotiations.” He paused. “Then the defendant may not have known he was committing treason, correct?”

“That is a logical presumption, sir. Nevertheless—”

 _Nevertheless, his intent at the time was immaterial_ , T’Anna thought _._ “Thank you, Mr. Spock,” Anniston was saying. “I have no more questions, Your Honor.”

“Very well, Mr. Spock. You may step down.”

Spock nodded, returned to his seat beside T’Anna, and took her hand. She mouthed her thanks and continued to face forward as the prosecutor made her methodical way through the roster of witnesses. The process of identification, questioning, and cross-examination was unchanging throughout, and no one person’s accounting of events differed materially from Spock’s or anyone else’s. At length Lieutenant Shaw said, “Mr. Anniston, call your first witness.”

“I call Tamsil Thomas Baldwin.”

T’Anna schooled her features as Baldwin made his way to the witness chair and seated himself.

“Mr. Baldwin,” began Anniston, “can you tell us why we’re here today?”

“I’m here because of what _she_ did!” Baldwin pointed a finger at T’Anna. “She shamed my family! She banished us all!”

T’Anna regarded him with sadness in her heart. _It was not I who shamed our family, Tamsil. And it was not you who left it—not as I did._ She thought of Zarabeth, who had been sent into exile for choosing her kinsmen unwisely. She herself had not been given a choice; her kinsmen had come to _her_ , and not by her invitation. Yet the terms of her exile had been equally binding, equally irrevocable. She had become a stranger in her own homeworld, a sojourner in a foreign land.

Shaw said, “Objection, Your Honor. The witness is attempting to contravene Vulcan law in justifying his actions.”

“Sustained,” sighed Bland. “Mr. Baldwin, do us all a favor—skip the history lesson and stick to current events.”

In the ensuing account, T’Anna heard what she’d expected to hear: a fusillade of insults directed against her and hers, a telltale evasiveness regarding the schematics and Klingon currency found in his belt pack, and a distinct lack of contrition for his recent actions. She found herself wishing that he had joined her for evening meditation with their grandmother. Perhaps if he had attended those sessions, the way of acceptance would have come more easily to him. Perhaps he would not have been so quick to cast blame. Perhaps he would not have been accused of the crimes for which he now stood trial.

The firmness in Bland’s voice startled her out of her reverie. “Call your next witness.”

“I have no more witnesses, Your Honor.”

“Very well.” Bland’s gaze swung to the prosecuting attorney. “Lieutenant, do you wish to make a closing statement?”

“I do,” Shaw said. “Your Honor, members of the board, I believe that Tamsil Thomas Baldwin is guilty of all charges against him on the basis of both computer footage and eyewitness testimony. This evidence clearly shows that Mr. Baldwin had every intention of violating multiple Federation laws when he entered the bay where the _Enterprise_ was docked. He was not behaving irrationally in the heat of the moment, as one might expect from observing his behavior today. Rather, his actions were coldly planned and calculated—and they should be judged accordingly.” She paused. “The prosecution rests, Your Honor.”

The room was silent.

“Mr. Anniston?”

The young attorney nodded. “Your Honor, I would not presume to deny the veracity of either computer footage or sworn testimony. However, I respectfully request that the court show leniency in sentencing given the defendant’s mental state as attested to by his medical file. The defense rests.”

T’Anna watched the eyes of the board members as they left the room to consider their verdict. It was not long in coming. Thanks to a finding of diminished capacity, Tamsil Thomas Baldwin would not hang. But he would remain on a penal colony for the rest of his natural life.

And perhaps it really was her fault.


	9. Chapter 9

Opalescia Tau, so named for the rainbow-hued iridescence the terraforming process had deposited in the planet’s sand, soil, and stone, might have sprung from the pages of an illustrated book—perhaps, T’Anna thought, one of the many fairy tales she had read with such rapt attention as a child. Wherever she looked, a profusion of brilliant colors shimmered and winked as if in reply to her wondering gaze, for the architects on Opalescia Tau had reveled in the possibilities afforded them by the planet’s unconventional building materials. On this day, when the sky was blue and the wind brisk, the effect was dazzling. To the casual observer, Opalescia Tau would no doubt seem magical, even idyllic, hence its appeal as a tourist destination.

But she was hardly a casual observer, for she knew that the idyll was in danger. As she stood waiting in the wide stone arch that fronted the administrative palace, she wondered what was happening elsewhere in the city. Where was the governor? Was he responding to another incident? She looked down the hill toward the horizon. A glint of sun off metal told her that the official motorcade would arrive momentarily. Until then, she would savor the multiplicity of colors that gleamed and whispered all around her. Perhaps someday she could make her home here with Spock, here in this enchantingly lovely place that held no dark memories. She wished she could speak of them to Spock, but she dared not. Even absent the rule of the seal—

“Ambassador!” Lutton was approaching the archway at a trot. When he drew alongside her, he shook her hand warmly. “You honor Opalescia Tau with your presence.”

“I come to serve,” she replied, reciting her portion of the time-honored exchange.

“Glad that’s out of the way. Can’t have you thinking I don’t know how to observe the niceties.” He smiled at her.

She smiled back. “It’s good to see you again, Governor. Truly.”

“Likewise.” He searched her face. “Are you doing all right?” She nodded. “That’s good to hear.” But he sounded distracted. “Did McCoy make it out here?”

“Yes, Governor. He’s waiting for us in the conference room, as are Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock, and Mr. Scott.”

“Very good. The gang’s all here, then, except for Ambassador Sarek. He’s running five minutes behind us. Said his shuttlecraft was late and we should start without him. Shall we go in?”

* * *

 

Entering the conference hall at Lutton’s side, T’Anna was reminded of the music room aboard the _Enterprise,_ for the décor was decidedly Rococo: peach-colored walls trimmed in gold gilt, matching peach-and-gold chairs, an ornate crystal chandelier in which a thousand rainbows danced, and a long rectangular wooden table so highly polished that it bore reflections from the tall arched windows.

Everyone at the table rose. “Please take a seat, everyone,” said Lutton. He pulled out the chair to his immediate right and held it for T’Anna, who murmured acknowledgment as she settled herself at the table. Spock seated himself at T’Anna’s right. Kirk, McCoy, and Scott sat beside him. Two Klingons whom T’Anna did not recognize took their seats as far away from the Federation contingent as they could.

Lutton seated himself. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to begin by thanking you all for coming. Let me introduce everyone. Ambassador T’Anna, you know our Starfleet officers, of course—”

 _Of course, Governor._ She smiled gently.

“—Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock, Mr. Scott, and Dr. McCoy. Also with us today are two representatives of the Klingon Empire—” He broke off as the door opened to admit Sarek, whose patrician features would have marked him out as Spock’s father even had she not known him by sight. “Ambassador Sarek, welcome.”

Sarek nodded. “Governor.”

“We were just introducing ourselves. I believe you’ve met our Klingon representatives, Kozsvar and Kovacs, and I’m sure the Federation delegates need no introduction.”

“Indeed,” replied Sarek, deadpan. T’Anna suppressed another smile.

Lutton beckoned to him. “Please take a seat.”

“Thank you, Governor.” Sarek seated himself beside Scott. “I trust you will forgive my tardiness.”

“That’s quite all right, Ambassador,” Lutton assured him. “The important thing is, you’re safe.”

T’Anna contemplated the aptness of this reply. Not only was it a kindness, it also served to emphasize to all present the purpose and urgency of their meeting. If this approach was typical of him—and she had no reason to believe it wasn’t—then Thomas Lutton was a very fine diplomat indeed. Yet he had entrusted the negotiations not to Sarek, who was years her senior, but to her. For the moment at least, the stage was hers. She took a deep breath. “Gentlemen, I’d like to thank Governor Lutton for his kind hospitality”—he dipped his head briefly—“and also to join him in thanking all of you for coming here today. I understand that the governor has briefed you as regards the particulars of the current crisis, and I need hardly remind you of the gravity of the situation, but I am grateful for your willingness to meet. That willingness tells me that you favor an amicable resolution.”

Nods around the table.

“I should like to pose a question to all of you: How would you like to see this matter resolved?”

“Peaceably,” Lutton replied.

“Pah!” Kovacs scoffed. “We are Klingons! We do not live in peace! We do not _desire_ peace!” The other Klingon, Kozsvar, nodded assent. One look at the two of them told T’Anna they had to be identical twins. Their eyes were equally almond-shaped, their hair equally dark and curly, and in all likelihood, their tempers equally volatile. “Peace is anathema to us—we are fighters, hunters! Without war, we have nothing!”

T’Anna regarded him with interest. “What does war give you, Kovacs?”

His answer came readily. “A life of honor! He who takes my weapon takes my honor!”

“I can understand that,” Lutton said. “But a battle between forces of uneven strength is not honorable, is it?”

“No!” interjected Kozsvar. “It is not!”

Kovacs whirled on his brother. “Be silent, Kozsvar! Waging a war using weaponry you know to be superior is simply good strategy. And good strategy wins every battle—as you well know and as we were both taught! But perhaps you have forgotten that—and perhaps you have also forgotten that I am your elder and your better!”

“Gentlemen—” began T’Anna.

Both brothers ignored her. “Why is it, Kovacs,” drawled Kozsvar, “that an age difference of three minutes makes you my better?”

“What insolence!” shouted Kovacs, rising and drawing his knife. “I shall not stand for this!”

“You appear to be standing now, sir,” Spock noted.

T’Anna’s incipient smile vanished as the elder Klingon brandished his knife in a hand that shook with fury. “Attend to your own affairs, Vulcan, and leave me to mine!” Kovacs ran around the long table, making for Spock. Before he could get there, however, Kirk and Scott overpowered him, Kozsvar sat on top of him, Sarek relieved him of his knife, and Spock incapacitated him with a neck pinch before reseating himself, his expression utterly bland.

Lutton, meanwhile, had taken advantage of the confusion to summon three gold-uniformed guards, who arrived within moments and sized up the scene in one practiced glance. On the governor’s signal, they handcuffed Kovacs and removed him from the room.

“We value our peace,” said Lutton as if an explanation had been requested. “Race hatred has no place here. Neither does violence. And it’s hardly honorable to draw knives at the negotiating table.”

T’Anna wondered at the source of Kovacs’ hubris. Klingons, though a warlike people, did not typically attack members of their own house. Keeping one’s battle skills honed was expected. But turning them against a relative in earnest was anything but.

Kozsvar looked around the room, dividing his gaze among everyone present. “Please accept my apologies for my brother’s actions. I have always believed that a war fought against an unarmed or poorly armed adversary is not honorable—an idea with which my brother disagrees.”

“I’ll let him apologize for himself in the holding cell,” Lutton replied grimly, “as soon as he wakes up. In the meantime, we have a bigger problem to solve. Shall we continue, Ambassador?”

“Certainly.” T’Anna turned to Kozsvar. “What is the source of your disagreement with your brother?”

“Only a coward or a fool fails to carry an adequate weapon,” he responded. “Klingons are not cowards, Ambassador. Neither are we fools. And I see no reason for us to engage in combat with those who are. They are unworthy opponents and hence beneath our notice.”

“I could kick you off this planet for that,” mused Lutton in a tone that fell just short of admiring. “Except that I’d be playing right into your hands. Besides, I want to hear what the ambassador has to say.”

T’Anna exchanged glances with Spock and Sarek, who nodded, tacitly agreeing to follow Lutton’s lead and ignore Kozsvar’s thinly veiled insults against their homeworld. The young warrior had to be aware that Vulcans did not carry weapons—except, of course, during the _koon-ut-kal-if-fee_ ritual, about which he, like other Klingons, knew nothing at all.

“Governor,” asked T’Anna, “do I understand correctly that no citizen of Opalescia Tau is permitted to own or carry a weapon?”

“That’s right.”

Kozsvar sneezed violently. From her experience with her aunt, T’Anna knew that Klingons did not like to have attention drawn to self-perceived bodily weaknesses of any sort, up to and including coughing or sneezing. Hence, she gave a tiny shake of her head, trusting that Lutton and the others would interpret her nonverbal signal correctly, and persevered with her questioning. “What of tourists and long-term visitors?”

Lutton sighed. “Easily forty percent of them carry at least one weapon—I had my security chief run the numbers for the third time last week. And many of them carry multiple weapons. We have to put a stop to this.”

“With respect, Governor,” said Kozsvar, “I continue to share my brother’s belief that a Klingon who is deprived of his weapons is deprived of his honor. Even if we were to relinquish our weapons voluntarily upon arrival, we would be defenseless against Federation phasers.”

T’Anna regarded him thoughtfully. “Perhaps not,” she said. “Suppose I told you that you need not relinquish _all_ of your weapons while on this planet—and moreover, that there would be no phasers to trouble you. What would you think of that?”

 _Not much_ , his eyes said. “Ambassador, must you speak in riddles?”

“Forgive me, Kozsvar,” she answered. “What I would propose is no riddle. Would you indulge me for a moment?”

He nodded curtly. “Very well.”

“Thank you.” She turned to Lutton. “Governor, I’m given to understand that Starfleet personnel are trained in hand-to-hand combat involving knives. Is my understanding correct?”

“It is.”

“Captain Kirk?”

“Agreed.”

“In that case, please allow me to propose a solution.” She paused for effect. “One: that each person or other sentient being, regardless of nationality or allegiance, be permitted to carry a single knife—”

Lutton cut her off. “Why a knife, Ambassador?”

Kozsvar preempted her reply. “Because it is the responsibility of every honorable Klingon to carry one.”

“Carrying a knife wouldn’t be a requirement, though, would it?” asked Lutton.

“No, Governor. Not under the laws of Opalescia Tau. Under this proposal, each resident or visitor would carry a knife if and only if that resident or visitor wished to do so.” Lutton’s expression cleared. “Said knife would be suitable for close combat. Two: that all persons and other sentient beings be prohibited from carrying any other weapon while on the planet’s surface.”

Kirk stirred in his chair. “Forgive me, Ambassador, but I don’t relish the prospect of leaving those under my command poorly protected, and I suspect that Starfleet Command would feel the same way.”

“Captain,” Lutton replied, “the welfare of every citizen and visitor on this planet is my concern—not Starfleet Command’s.”

“And the welfare of those under my command is _my_ concern at all times,” retorted Kirk. “You were a former Starfleet captain yourself, Governor. You know that as well as I do.”

“Yes, Captain, and you know the Prime Directive as well as I do. We on Opalescia Tau have always chosen not to own or carry weapons. Allowing large numbers of Starfleet visitors, even those on shore leave, to carry multiple weapons runs counter to the culture of this planet, and I cannot permit that.”

“Gentlemen,” T’Anna interposed. Kirk, Lutton, and Kozsvar all looked at her. “It seems to me that the solution now before us addresses the concerns that all of you have voiced. Visitors to Opalescia Tau would be permitted to carry a single knife so as not to be rendered defenseless”—Kirk nodded—“or find themselves involuntarily deprived of the honor that is due them.” Kozsvar nodded in turn. “However, neither visitors nor residents would be _required_ to carry a weapon unless they wished—or in the case of Starfleet personnel, were asked—to do so.”

“That’s all well and good,” objected Lutton, “but how would we keep all the knives out of bars and hotels and such?”

“In point of fact, Governor, you wouldn’t,” T’Anna replied.

Lutton regarded her quizzically.

”These bars and hotels, Governor—do they all have private rooms?”

Lutton’s quizzical expression hadn’t changed. “Of course they do, Ambassador. Why do you ask?”

“Because one room in each of those venues could be designated as a place of combat.”

“Makes sense to me,” said Lutton.

Kozsvar sneezed again.

McCoy, who had contributed nothing to the discussion thus far, asked, “What happens if someone is wounded in one of these sanctioned places of combat and there’s no doctor in the house?”

T’Anna began to speak, but Lutton preempted her. “I’ll take this one.” He turned to McCoy. “Bones, I’m glad you could make it. It’s good to see you.”

The two men exchanged smiles.

Lutton said, “To answer your question, this planet is very small, as I’m sure you noticed on your way in.”

“I certainly did. Mr. Spock and his infallible sensors saw to that.”

T’Anna’s lips twitched; Kozsvar sneezed a third time.

“On Opalescia Tau,” continued the governor, “all of the major tourist venues are located in the town center, within a few city blocks of one another. The hospital is central to all of these locations. In the event of an emergency, first responders would arrive at any one of these venues within five minutes.”

“Very good,” McCoy said. “I only wish everyone were so well-prepared.”

“Thank you, sir.” Lutton’s Southern politeness was showing. “We aim to please.”

“I’d say you’re hitting the mark.”

They smiled at each other again.

“Governor, Ambassador,” said Kozsvar, “I must point out that when large numbers of combatants are present, the confines of a small space may not suffice.”

“Indeed.” T’Anna knew he wasn’t exaggerating; she had seen a few such fights herself. “Governor, the city has a gymnasium, has it not?”

Lutton nodded. “More than one. Several.”

“May I propose, then, that one of them be designated as a place of combat to be overseen jointly by Klingon and Federation personnel?”

“That would be acceptable,” replied Kozsvar.

“That does seem reasonable,” Lutton agreed. “And before you ask, Bones, all of these gymnasiums are—again—centrally located. Securing prompt medical care won’t be difficult.”

“Understood,” responded McCoy.

“Thank you, Doctor.” T’Anna regarded each participant in turn as she spoke her next words. “Gentlemen, have you any outstanding questions? Concerns? Objections?” But there were none—not even from Spock or Sarek, both of whom had kept their own counsel thus far. “May I trust that the proposed course of action meets with your approval?”

There was a brief silence before Kozsvar nodded his approval. Seeing this, Lutton broke into a smile.

It was done. She had succeeded.

McCoy was the first to speak. “You do realize this’ll set military technology back four hundred years.”

T’Anna smiled. “Only on this planet, Doctor.” And to Kozsvar, gently: “Is honor satisfied?”

“It is satisfied.” He shook hands with Lutton before turning back to T’Anna. “You acquit yourself well, Ambassador.”

“It was my honor to assist.” Engaging in diplomatic negotiations had always been a pleasure as well as a duty for her, and the successful drafting of an agreement constituted a personal triumph as much as a professional one. Moreover, because two of the disputants were Klingons seeking to secure honor for others of their race, this particular agreement would help, albeit in a modest way, to repair the fabric that had been rent in her departure from her homeworld and her aunt who had prized honor above all else. She kept her voice steady as she said, “If I may be of service in any other way, please contact me.”

“I shall, Ambassador.”

T’Anna turned to Lutton. “Governor, to confirm: Are we agreed?”

“We are.” Lutton did not trouble to conceal his relief.

She turned to her other Federation colleagues. “Gentlemen . . . ?”

“Agreed,” said Kirk. “I only wish I’d thought of all this myself.” He smiled at her. She responded in kind.

McCoy chuckled. “I’d say you’ve done your good deed for the day.”

Scott nodded. “Aye.”

Sarek said, “Logical.”

Spock was the last to respond. He thanked her quietly in Vulcan and took her hand under the table.


	10. Chapter 10

Several days had passed since the negotiations on Opalescia Tau had concluded. Although he and his crew had taken full advantage of their shore leave, Kirk had not been sorry to leave the planet’s dazzling rainbows behind. He much preferred shipboard routine to rarefied diplomacy, much preferred being where he was now: in the command chair of the _Enterprise,_ settling in after the noon concert, embarking on a new mission.

“Mr. Chekov, set course zero-three-eight, mark seven-three.”

“Course plotted and laid in, sir.”

“Mr. Sulu, ahead warp factor two. Engage.”

“Warp factor two, sir.”

The warp engine’s smooth response was gratifying, even if the _Enterprise_ could afford to be sedate. Their current mission consisted of patrolling a peaceful sector with no atmospheric anomalies, no energy fields inimical to human life, nothing else that might pose an extraordinary risk to ship or crew—and nothing much of interest. Kirk decided he’d better put this time to good use while he could and turned his attention to the status reports that were every starship captain’s constant companion. He’d approved three of them before his mind registered that Chekov had left his post and was speaking in Russian—and a veritable flood of it at that. The former was to be expected, as the young man’s shift had just ended. The latter, however, was decidedly odd. English was the lingua franca not only of the _Enterprise_ , but of the entire Federation. Even Uhura, polyglot that she was, spoke very little Russian—so little, in fact, that she had to resort to the universal translator to make sense of it.

As indeed she was doing now. “Most noble empress!” Chekov was declaiming in bombastic tones. Kirk turned in his chair and was utterly astonished to find his navigator addressing Uhura on bended knee. “Accept my allegiance, O merciful sovereign!” Chekov kissed her hand with a courtly flourish. “You are the moon to my star, the Catherine to my Potemkin, the queen of my heart—”

Kirk shot him a look of warning. “Mr. Chekov—”

But Uhura was more than equal to the occasion. “Aren’t you aiming your sights a little high, Chekov?” Her eyes twinkled. “What about that old flame of yours?”

“Old . . . flame?”

“Old love,” Uhura clarified.

“Old _love?_ Do you mean Irina? But she was not so correct as you.”

“No, but _you’d_ better be, or the sovereign you’ll have to worry about is Captain Kirk.”

Kirk chuckled in spite of himself. “That’s right, Mr. Chekov. And I can see I don’t need to worry about _you,_ Lieutenant.”

“Not at all, Captain.” She regarded her sometime suitor with an indulgent smile. “I never thought I’d say this, Chekov, but you might consider learning how to fence. Ask Sulu to teach you.”

Kirk laughed outright. “Don’t encourage him, Uhura. He’s incorrigible enough as it is.”

The young man in question pulled a very convincing pout. Kirk felt a twinge of conscience. True, his navigator looked to be about twelve years old, and he was acting like a lovestruck teenager besides, but it still wasn’t fair to bait him like this. “I was out of line, Mr. Chekov. I’m sorry.”

“I apologize for my actions as well, Captain—and to you also, Lieutenant. I do not feel like myself today.”

Kirk searched his face. “You do look rather flushed, Ensign. Report to Sickbay and have Dr. McCoy examine you.”

“I will do that, Captain. Thank you.” Chekov nodded and departed.

Hardly had the lift doors closed when the boatswain’s whistle sounded. “McCoy to Captain Kirk.”

“Kirk here. What’s the matter, Bones?”

“Not what’s the matter, Jim. _Where’s_ the matter is more like it.”

“Bones, what the devil are you talking about?”

“It’s funny you should mention the devil, Jim!” But McCoy wasn’t laughing. “I’m beginning to think this whole ship is possessed! Two of my lab techs got hold of the gelatin I use for cultures and splattered it all in their hair! Next thing I know, there was a food fight going on in the mess hall—the galley chief is having fits! Why in the world can’t people act their age?”

“That question is most suggestive, Doctor,” Spock’s reply came from over Kirk’s shoulder. “In fact, you may have pinpointed the cause of our present difficulties.”

“Are you speaking in riddles again, Mr. Spock?”

“Hardly, Doctor. A pattern is developing,” Spock explained. “First Chekov, acting very much like an adolescent human male at hormonal peak. Next, your laboratory technicians and others treating valuable foodstuffs and other substances as if they were nursery playthings to be disposed of at will. In both of these instances, the social conventions appropriate to each participant’s chronological age appear to be disregarded by said participant. I should not be surprised if some form of memory loss were found to be implicated.”

McCoy was thunderstruck. “ _Memory_ loss? You’d better be joking, Mr. Spock.”

Spock’s face was impassive. “Vulcans never joke.”

“Captain!” Sulu called out. “Three Romulan warbirds are dead ahead, sir!”

Spock ran for his science station. “No data available, Captain.”

Kirk looked at the viewscreen and frowned. There was no good reason for him not to see what his helmsman saw. “Extreme magnification, Mr. Chekov.”

“Magnification twelve, sir.”

But it was useless; the viewscreen showed only stars, just as it had before. “Sensor readings, Mr. Spock?”

Spock leaned over the display. “All sensor readings normal, Captain. Our vessel appears to be the only one in this sector.”

 _Better safe than sorry._ “Perform sensor diagnostics, Mr. Spock.”

Spock pressed several buttons. “Sensors functioning normally, Captain.”

“Very good, Mr. Spock. Keep an eye on those sensors. If someone’s seeing ghosts, I want to know why.”

“Acknowledged.”

The _Enterprise_ shuddered beneath his feet just as the overhead lighting flickered off and on again. “Kirk to Engineering, report!”

“Scott here, Captain.”

“What just happened, Scotty?”

“Captain, I can’t account for it. I—” The engineer’s reply was cut short by a prodigious sneeze.

A muscle moved in Kirk’s jaw. “I want answers, Scotty. Kirk out. Sensor readings, Mr. Spock?”

“Unchanged, Captain.”

The ship shuddered even more violently. “Mr. Spock, repeat sensor diagnostic check.”

Spock obliged him. “All sensors continuing to function normally, Captain.”

The engine gave a mighty groan and stopped dead.

“Kirk to Engineering, report!”

“Captain, the warp drive won’t power so much as a light bulb, and I’m blessed if I know why!” Another sneeze.

“Is the impulse drive operational?”

“Aye, if we use batteries, but—”

“Just do it, Scotty. Engage battery power.” The engines hummed to life. “How long will our batteries hold out?”

“Four hours, sir.”

“Keep her going, Scotty. Effect repairs and advise when complete. Kirk out.” And to Sulu: “Helm, go to impulse, quarter-speed!”

“One-quarter impulse—Captain, they’re closing on us! Request permission to fire, sir!”

 _At what?_ “Permission denied, Mr. Sulu! Get me some answers, Mr. Spock!”

“Sensors functioning normally, Captain. I believe that there are two possibilities. One, that Romulan warships are indeed in our path, but they are cloaking and decloaking so rapidly that only Mr. Sulu has had the opportunity to observe them. And—” He hesitated.

“And, Mr. Spock? _And?_ ” Suddenly Kirk felt as if he were crawling out of his skin.

“And there may be an entity—whether aboard the _Enterprise_ or elsewhere within this region of space—that is exercising a malign influence upon us. It is my belief that we should proceed with caution, Captain.”

Kirk exhaled. “I share your belief, Mr. Spock.”

“Mr. Spock,” asked Sulu, “are the environmental controls operating properly?”

Spock pushed a button. “Affirmative, Mr. Sulu. Why do you ask?”

“Because it’s hotter than a greenhouse in here, sir.” He winced.

Kirk noticed. “What’s wrong, Mr. Sulu?”

“I have a headache, sir.”

Kirk watched the viewscreen as he asked his next question. “Do you see any Romulan warbirds, Mr. Sulu?”

“No, sir.” The helmsman sneezed.

Spock said, “Captain, I respectfully submit that my hypothesis concerning a malign influence was correct. That influence appears to be pathogenic.”

“Indeed it does, Mr. Spock. You’ve just earned your pay for the week.”

“The warbirds are back, Captain,” mumbled Sulu. He sneezed again.

“You’re relieved, Mr. Sulu,” Kirk snapped. “Report to Sickbay immediately.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Kirk heard the red lift doors open and close. “Lieutenant Brent, take the helm. Continue present course.”

“Yes, sir. Helm responding.”

Kirk exhaled. “Very good, Lieutenant. Steady as she goes.”

Tremors ran through the ship. “Kirk to Engineering, report!”

“Scott here, Captain.”

“What’s going on over there, Scotty?”

“I canna’ be sure, Captain. I was testing the warp drive when I heard bagpipes behind me. _Bagpipes,_ Captain! Here on the _Enterprise!_ Can you credit that, now?”

Unfortunately, Kirk could.

“I turned around to see where the music was coming from, sir, and when I turned back, the warp drive had fixed itself somehow.” But another tremor gave the lie to the engineer’s words.

“Mr. Scott, report to Sickbay at once. Mr. Spock, you’re in command.” Kirk headed for the lift. “I’m going to Engineering.”

“Acknowledged.” Spock rose and settled himself in the chair Kirk had vacated.

The lift doors opened. “I’ll light a fire under Scotty if I have to.”

“Captain, if I may point out—” The lift doors closed.

Exiting the lift, Kirk ran for Engineering at full tilt. Only one officer was on duty: a very young, very scared-looking redshirt. “Lieutenant, where’s Mr. Scott?”

“He went to Sickbay, sir.”

“Sickbay . . . ?” Suddenly the room seemed uncomfortably hot and close; Sulu’s remark about a greenhouse made perfect sense now. “Oh, yes. Yes, of course.”

“Sir?”

Kirk shook his head to clear it. “Never mind, Lieutenant. Show me what happened.” And then he saw what the engineer had been working on—or more precisely, what he’d been trying to fix. “Lieutenant, did someone overload these engines?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who did this, Lieutenant? What happened?”

The redshirt said nothing.

Kirk’s mouth tightened. “Tell me who did this, Lieutenant. That’s an order.”

The young man looked unhappy. “Mr. Scott made changes to both drives, sir, just before he went to Sickbay. No one else was here, sir.”

Kirk nodded. “What’s our battery status, Lieutenant?”

“Three hours, fifty-two minutes, sir.” At least this tallied with Scott’s earlier account.

“Very well, Lieutenant. Carry on.” Now he knew who had overloaded the engines; his next task was to find out why. He made his way to the door and turned back. “Relay quarter-hour status reports to the bridge concerning available battery power. Inform the bridge when each drive is operational. And don’t mention Mr. Scott’s condition to anyone under any circumstances. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Kirk rushed to Sickbay, where he nearly collided with Christine Chapel, who was on her way out. “I’m sorry, Nurse. Clumsy of me. Bones—”

“Right here, Jim,” said McCoy. The doctor had appeared behind Chapel as she righted herself and disappeared down the corridor at a trot.

Kirk felt the beginnings of a sneeze. When had his throat started tickling? “Is Mr. Scott still here?”

McCoy’s voice rose with indignation. “Of course he’s still here, Jim! He’s suffering from rapid-onset memory loss, irrational thinking, hallucinations, and a headache, plus a sky-high fever! And all of this is due to some sort of unknown pathogen!”

Yes, Spock had been right.

“Not to mention that he’s sneezing fit to burst! Why in the world would I discharge him?”

“Really, Doctor, are you incapable of speaking without an excess of emotion?” Spock had arrived.

McCoy scowled. “I see no need to dignify that remark with a reply, Mr. Spock.”

“I believe you have just done so, Doctor.”

“ _Vulcans!_ I swear!” McCoy shook his head. “What are you doing here anyway, Mr. Spock? Shouldn’t you be on the bridge?”

“Under normal circumstances, Doctor, I would indeed have remained on the bridge. However, I took the liberty of following the captain here because his present state of mind has given me cause for concern.”

Kirk arched an eyebrow at his science officer. “‘Cause for concern,’ Mr. Spock? As in intuition? I thought you didn’t believe in that.”

“Strictly speaking, I do not. However, you made a most uncharacteristic error in reasoning a few moments ago, and I thought it prudent to ascertain the facts.”

Kirk nodded. “And what was that error, Mr. Spock?”

“A few moments ago, Captain, you expressed a wish to speak with Mr. Scott in Engineering _after_ you had ordered him to report to Sickbay. It should have been immediately apparent to you—but was not—that Mr. Scott could not exist in two locations at once.”

“I see. Is that what you were trying to tell me earlier?”

“Precisely, Captain.”

Kirk nodded thoughtfully. “As much as I don’t like to admit it, Bones, I think I’m your next patient.”

McCoy didn’t disagree. “It’s time I examined you, Jim. Let’s unclog this traffic jam, shall we?” He stepped back from the doorway and waved his colleagues inside. The three of them crossed to the examination table. “Come lie down, Jim. Have a seat, Spock.”

“Thank you, Doctor; I prefer to stand.” Spock clasped his hands behind his back as was his custom. But Kirk lowered himself onto the smooth padded surface of the examination table with no little relief. He was only too happy to be off his feet for once—and that fact alone unnerved him.

“How are you feeling, Jim?”

“I’ve felt better, Bones.”

McCoy scanned Kirk with the tricorder. “I can see why. That’s quite a high fever you’ve got there.”

“Almost as high as Spock’s,” mumbled Kirk. Thought was an effort, speech a greater one.

McCoy regarded him sharply. “Spock’s fever cleared up quite a while ago, Jim, and it wasn’t due to any unknown pathogen. I’ll need to keep you here for observation. Oh, good, Nurse”—this as a strangely red-faced Chapel reentered Sickbay—“you can help me with the lab analysis.”

“Certainly, Doctor.” She sneezed.

McCoy scanned her and sighed. “Forget I said that. You’re staying here with the rest of the patients until further notice. Mr. Spock, come with me.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

The medical lab of the _Enterprise_ was small, its battleship-gray walls and grille backlit with a green glow. Standing at the lab’s long table, McCoy was currently applying one of numerous brightly colored reagents to a biological sample, preparing a slide, and squinting at its contents through the lens of a high-powered microscope. Spock stood at the room’s computer console awaiting instructions. “Definitely a virus,” McCoy muttered to himself. “But what kind of virus? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Spock turned to face him. “If I may propose a hypothesis, Doctor, I submit that this virus is newly created, hence the failure of the tricorder to identify it. I further submit that the virus is native to Klingons but communicable to humans when the two groups are in close proximity to each other, as happened during the recent negotiations on Opalescia Tau. Humans thus exposed then infect other humans, sometimes with extreme rapidity.”

“You may be right, Spock.” Coming from McCoy, this was high praise indeed. “How’d you figure that out so fast? Are you an epidemiologist now?”

“I make no such claim, Doctor; I am merely applying logic.”

“You and your logic,” McCoy grumbled.

“I believe that the Klingon called Kozsvar transmitted the virus via aerosols—”

“In other words, by sneezing.”

“—and that Nurse Chapel and others were infected following our return to the _Enterprise_.”

McCoy mopped his forehead with his sleeve. “Is it hot in here to you, Spock?”

  
“Not at all, Doctor.”

“I should have known.” McCoy scanned himself with his tricorder and frowned. “According to this, I’m feverish, and that plus the way I’ve been feeling for the last few minutes proves you right, as much as I hate to admit it.” He gave a weary sigh. “There’s no arguing with that Vulcan logic of yours, Spock.”

“On the contrary, Doctor, you do so quite often.”

McCoy vouchsafed no reply, which told Spock just how ill the doctor must be feeling. “If I may make a suggestion, Doctor, I propose that the Terran envoy to Vulcan assist me in performing a search for the proper serum.”

McCoy stared at him. “Are you out of your mind, Spock? Ask an ambassador to do lab work? What are you trying to do, start a diplomatic incident?”

“Hardly, Doctor. I am attempting to solve our present problem.”

“And how can a Vulcan ambassador help us do that, Spock?”

“There is every reason to believe that Vulcans are immune to the effects of the virus,” Spock explained. “Consider the facts, Doctor. During the negotiations on Opalescia Tau, there were five representatives from the _Enterprise_ in attendance: the captain, Mr. Scott, the envoy, you, and me. Of those five, three were human and two Vulcan. All three humans appear to have contracted the disease, while I remain asymptomatic despite multiple exposures to infected aerosols. Likewise, the envoy has reported no difficulties despite the fact that her constitution is extraordinarily sensitive to _anything_ —whether it be illness or fatigue—that compromises her immune system. I therefore believe her to be a suitable laboratory assistant under the present circumstances.”

“You’ve sold me, Spock.” McCoy barely contained a sneeze. “Have the envoy report to Sickbay.”

Spock frowned. “To Sickbay, Doctor? I was given to understand that she should report here.”

“Yes, of course,” McCoy sighed. “I’m sorry, Spock. My brain is acting like a sieve right now.”

Spock nodded somberly; he’d known that was coming. He walked to the intercom and issued the requisite summons, hoping the envoy would not misconstrue it as an affront to her dignity.

McCoy headed for the door. “Well, I guess that’s it for now, Spock. If you need me, I’ll be in Sickbay issuing surgical masks to all patients.”

“’Physician, heal thyself.’”

“Thanks, Spock. I’ll wear one too.”

* * *

 

T’Anna arrived in short order. Spock watched her acquaint herself with the salient details of her immediate surroundings: the lit but unattended microscope, the half-empty vials and bottles scattered on the table, the unused flasks, the absence of a laboratory assistant. Presently she moved to Spock’s side at the computer console. “Dr. McCoy and Miss Chapel are both ill, are they not?”

“Affirmative.”

“The doctor was exposed to an unknown microbe during our negotiations on Opalescia Tau—a microbe to which Klingons are susceptible as well.”

“It would seem so, T’Anna. Dr. McCoy had isolated the microbe and determined it to be a virus before he began experiencing symptoms.”

“He infected Miss Chapel with it.”

“So it appears.”

“Meaning that the disease is communicable among humans.”

“Yes.”

“And you and I are immune to it because of our parentage.”

“That is one possibility. However, it is not the only one.”

“I understand,” T’Anna replied. “It is possible that the virus simply has a longer incubation period in Vulcans than it does in humans. We must formulate the serum at once so that at least one person aboard the _Enterprise_ is healthy enough to administer it to others.”

“Precisely. May I ask—did you excel in science as a student?”

She shook her head. “It was difficult for me. My ratings ranged between average and good. I would call them fair, I suppose. They certainly weren’t excellent.” She smiled wryly. “I imagine you’ll want to know about statistics next. I fared even worse in those.”

“Fortunately, I am familiar with the principles of statistical analysis.” He regarded T’Anna thoughtfully before taking the smallest of the vials and handing it to her. It was empty, which was just as well, because her hand trembled as she held it. She returned the flask to the table.

“I’m sorry, Spock. I’m afraid coordination of that sort isn’t my forte either.”

He considered the problem. “How would you characterize your pattern recognition skills?”

“I’d say they’re better than my mathematical ones.” She paused. “I was once asked to describe the similarities and differences between dozens of photographs that appeared to be identical at first glance. Twenty-four other students were given the same assignment. My score was the highest.”

Spock nodded. “Would you be willing to repeat that assignment—or rather, a variant of it?”

“I should be more than willing.”

“You are not affronted? You do not, perhaps, feel that such a task is unworthy of a Federation envoy?”

“Not in the least. Should I?”

* * *

 

Half an hour later, they had a partial answer. The microbe was a rhinovirus—a cold virus—that had been enhanced with a hallucinogenic agent. This conclusion explained some but not all of the symptoms that Kirk and the others had experienced, because hallucinogens did not trigger acute memory loss. T’Anna was combing through a second set of images, attempting to identify computer matches for the more intricate portions of the virus, when the boatswain’s whistle sounded.

“Sickbay to lab.” McCoy’s voice.

“Lab, Spock here.”

“How are you coming with the serum, Spock?”

“The envoy and I have ascertained that the microbe is a modified rhinovirus that has been enhanced with a hallucinogenic agent.”

“A _cold_ virus is causing this? Spock, I just had to put my orderly under restraint because he didn’t remember who I was or why he was here! I have dozens of patients just like him, and more are coming in every minute. You’ve got to do something!”

“Have patience, Doctor.”

“Have _patients_? How can you sit there and make puns at a time like this? You’ve got to be the most cold-hearted—”

Spock kept his voice level. “To begin with, Doctor, I am not sitting. Moreover, it was not my intention to—”

McCoy cut him off. “I have a lot of patients down here, and every last one of them”—his voice cracked—“is getting worse! You have to isolate that serum _right now!_ ”

“Doctor, we are proceeding as quickly as time allows.”

“You’ve got to do better than that!” Spock heard McCoy’s sigh even over the intercom. “Forget I said that, Spock. I’m sorry. Just let me know as soon as you have something, okay?”

“Acknowledged.”

* * *

 

A short time later, Spock had progressed as far as he could with his calculations given the paucity of available data. T’Anna also appeared to have come to a standstill, as only the image of the sample virus was displayed. Presently she turned away from the console with a sigh.

Spock studied her face closely. She was quite pale. “T’Anna, are you unwell?” The accompanying stab of worry disconcerted him greatly. When his father had become gravely ill, his own response had been quintessentially Vulcan, calm and controlled—so much so, in fact, that his mother had berated him for his callousness. Now, however, if T’Anna so much as sighed, he found himself concerned for her to the point of fear. He deduced from this response that the bond between the two of them, far from being broken by the cessation of the _pon farr_ , was only growing stronger.

“I am well enough, thank you, Spock,” T’Anna was saying. “Only . . . only I sense that the solution is before me and I simply cannot see it—not literally, not figuratively, not in any way can I see it. And I very much wish to see it. It is imperative that I see it.” At the moment, however, she appeared to be seeing nothing at all, for she had closed her eyes tightly, and her face was registering pain.

“T’Anna?”

She opened her eyes. “Forgive me, Spock. I do not wish to alarm you. What I am experiencing at present is a simple case of eyestrain.”

Spock searched her face again; she remained worryingly pale. “T’Anna, if you require a moment’s respite—”

She waved away the suggestion. “I am well enough, Spock. Truly. It is hardly fitting for me to display weakness during the performance of my duties.” She turned back to the console.

“Your determination is laudable, T’Anna.” And this, he realized, was their essential commonality: their single-mindedness in the pursuit of a common goal, their willingness to endure hardship in the service of others. Seen in this light, the bond between them was no illusion at all, as he had earlier feared, but rather an essential connection to nurture and cherish.

T’Anna began to pace the small room. Suddenly she suppressed a gasp, raced back to the console, and began typing furiously at a speed that rivaled Kyle’s. A moment later, she began reviewing a new sequence of images. Spock watched as one, two, then three of them scrolled up the screen. Standing over her shoulder to see what she saw, he compared the third image with the corresponding area of the virus that McCoy had isolated.

The images were identical.


	12. Chapter 12

“Prions?” asked McCoy, turning in his chair to find Spock and T’Anna standing beside him.

“Prions,” Spock replied firmly. “I am certain of it. My calculations were conservative. Moreover, the imaging agrees with the molecular structure of the virus that you isolated earlier this afternoon.”

McCoy sighed. “First things first. Before we get into all this, I think you’d better sit down, ma’am. You too, Spock, if you care to.”

Spock nodded acknowledgment, held a chair for T’Anna, and sat down beside her.

“Would you like some water, ma’am? Spock?”

T’Anna demurred, perhaps recalling that her previous attempt to ingest fluid while in Sickbay had been rather less than successful. Spock declined the offer because McCoy appeared to be on the verge of collapse. Only once had he seen his colleague look so weary. The doctor had been suffering from the effects of premature old age at the time, and he, along with Spock and Kirk, had barely managed to escape with his life and his wits.

“Now, Mr. Spock,” McCoy was saying, “you’ll forgive me if I don’t subscribe to your theory without proof. Practicing medicine without a license is considered a bad habit in my profession.”

“Perhaps, Doctor, but in this case it may well save hundreds of lives.”

McCoy regarded him sharply. “What are you talking about, Spock? I thought you said a cold virus caused this disease.”

“A _modified_ cold virus, Doctor,” corrected Spock. “It is the prions within that virus which contribute to fatalities.” He pressed a button. “Computer, correlate prions and viruses.”

“Working.”

T’Anna plaited her hands in her lap.

“Prions and viruses: both proteinaceous agents associated with infectious disease. Viruses responsible for multiple fatal and nonfatal illnesses; also communicable via aerosols and other bodily fluids containing high viral loads. Prions implicated in bovine spongiform encephalopathy, Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, Alzheimer’s disease, and other degenerative brain diseases. Bovine spongiform encephalopathy communicable across species via tainted animal products. Other vectors for communicable prion infection uncertain.”

Spock said, “Computer, estimate feasibility of using viral agents to transmit prions implicated in degenerative brain diseases.”

“Working.” And then: “Transmission method undocumented but feasible given similarity of molecular structure between viruses and prions.”

Spock, T’Anna, and McCoy exchanged glances. “Alzheimer’s disease,” the doctor said at last. “A contagious version of Alzheimer’s disease. Is that what’s waiting for us if we don’t take a chance with this serum?”

“I’m afraid so, Doctor,” T’Anna responded quietly. “A cousin of mine suffered from such a disease for years. He was a good man, a gentle man. I would not wish his fate, or his family’s fate, on anyone.”

“But it’s happening _right here!_ ” McCoy’s voice had risen with agitation. “And there’s not a thing I can do to stop it!”

In reply, Spock placed the vial of serum on McCoy’s desk. The doctor retrieved a wrapped sterile slide from a drawer, added a drop of serum to the slide, and inserted it into the computer. The results were encouraging, as Spock had foreseen. McCoy injected himself with several drops of it. The effect was electrifying. In seconds, the doctor cast off his weariness, hurried to his nurse’s side, and began issuing a volley of orders. “Miss Chapel, hold still for this hypo. You too, Mr. Spock, Ambassador”—for the two of them had followed in his wake. “I’m not about to risk your contracting communicable dementia. Vulcan logic is more than I can handle as it is. Now get out of here—I have hypos to administer!” He turned back to Chapel. “Are you feeling all right now, Nurse?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

He searched her face and nodded. “Good. Have our technicians prepare as many doses of the serum as they can. Start them working on a vaccine too.”

“Of course, Doctor.” Chapel ran for the lab.

McCoy walked to the intercom. “Sickbay to Captain Kirk.”

“Kirk here. What is it, Bones?”

“We’ve found the cure, Jim. Mr. Spock and the Vulcan ambassador figured it out. The lab’s working on serum and a vaccine.”

“Good. Thomas Lutton just hailed us about this.”

“Tom Lutton? Why?” Then he understood. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! He has the disease! And if he has it, half the planet has it!”

“That’s correct. We’re diverting there immediately. Meet me in the briefing room in five minutes, Bones. Ask the ambassador and Mr. Spock to join you. I’ll have Uhura call Mr. Scott. Kirk out.”

* * *

 

Presently, the five of them took their seats in the gray-walled, blue-carpeted briefing room. Spock sat at T’Anna’s right, Kirk at her left, and McCoy and Scott opposite.

“How are you feeling, Jim?”

Kirk smiled. “Like a new man, Bones.”

“I assure you, the feeling’s mutual.”

Kirk nodded. “Briefing room to bridge.”

“Uhura here, Captain.”

“Hail Thomas Lutton of Opalescia Tau via the diplomatic frequency. He’s expecting us.”

“Acknowledged,” replied Uhura. “You are tied in, sir. Bridge out.”

“Lutton here. What can I do for you, Captain?” His face was flushed, his voice hoarse.

“My ship’s surgeon and science officer have informed me that your planet requires immediate medical assistance.”

“That’s right.” Lutton took a deep breath. “What we have here is an epidemic of viral disease that causes memory loss. Our doctors can’t decode the structure of the virus because none of them are well enough to try. I don’t need to tell you that research and memory loss aren’t a good mix. We need serum, Captain, and we need it now.”

“Governor,” Spock said, “there is a possibility that Vulcans are immune to the virus that is causing this affliction. Does your medical staff contain a Vulcan contingent?”

“Don’t I wish. A few of our doctors have trained on Vulcan, but that’s about it.” The governor looked thoughtful. “It’s strange. Kozsvar was all right during our negotiations, but a day or two later, he started sneezing. I wonder whether he came down with whatever this is.”

Spock and T’Anna exchanged glances. “I am sorry to contradict you, Governor,” said T’Anna quietly, “but I’m afraid Kozsvar was already experiencing symptoms during our negotiations. I fear you’ve just had a lapse in your memory.”

“That isn’t like me at all,” Lutton observed, frowning.

McCoy sighed. “I hate to tell you this, Tom, but that memory lapse was just the beginning. The virus we isolated contained prions.”

Lutton looked blank. “Prions? What are those?”

“Prions are implicated in Alzheimer’s disease,” McCoy explained quietly.

“But that’s fatal,” Lutton objected.

“Given enough time, yes,” replied McCoy. “No one here has died of the disease, but—”

“But we’re running out of time. I understand.”

Kirk said, “We will proceed to Opalescia Tau at maximum warp and transmit an ETA momentarily.”

“Thank you, Captain. I appreciate this.” Unaccountably, however, Lutton did not sign off at once. “There’s something else you need to know about.”

“What’s that, Governor?”

“I know who created the virus.”

McCoy’s eyebrows shot up. “Someone _created_ it?”

“Unfortunately. You’ve met him, Bones; we all have. His name is Kovacs.”

“Fascinating,” murmured Spock.

“Seems he’s a scientist on Qo **'** noS,” Lutton said.

“Heaven preserve us from mad scientists,” muttered McCoy. “No offense, Mr. Spock.”

“None taken, Doctor. I assure you, I am quite sane.”

Lutton’s eyes glinted in apparent amusement. “I put him in a holding cell yesterday. I had to, after what his brother told me.”

“His _brother?_ You can’t be serious!” McCoy was being his volatile self. “Now granted, they fought like cats and dogs, but aren’t Klingons supposed to stick together?”

Spock opened his mouth to reply, but Kirk preempted him. “What would make a Klingon betray his own brother?”

“A matter of honor, Captain. What else?” Lutton smiled wryly, wearily. “Kozsvar said the virus was a coward’s weapon, that using it against civilians wouldn’t be honorable, which fits with what he said at the talks.” He shrugged. “We all heard him.”

Nods around the table.

“Seems he didn’t know his brother had created the virus. Kovacs apparently thought he’d found the perfect weapon. That explains why he was so full of himself during the talks.”

Spock turned to look at T’Anna. She was nodding thoughtfully.

“Once I put him in the holding cell, he started boasting to Kozsvar about what he’d done. Well, Kozsvar didn’t believe him at first—”

“Because Kovacs isn’t exactly sane,” McCoy put in.

“Right. But once I started having symptoms, Kozsvar came to me and started apologizing to me every which way. He was still sneezing, mind you, but his memory was in perfectly good shape. See, the virus was supposed to act like a cold virus, except that in humans, it would cause some sort of catastrophic memory loss also. But I guess you’ve figured that out already.”

The doctor nodded. “As it happens, Mr. Spock did most of the figuring, but go on.”

“It seems Kovacs developed a vaccine, used it on himself, and then destroyed it—the raw materials, the specs, everything.”

McCoy’s face reddened. “Why, that little—excuse me, ma’am.”

T’Anna’s reply was a shrug and a faint smile.

“Sorry, Tom. I know you’re a governor and all.”

Lutton offered him a lopsided grin. “Don’t worry about it, Bones. That’s what I thought too, at least at first.”

McCoy’s eyebrows shot up again. “At _first?_ Tom, is your memory playing up?”

“Bones.” Kirk’s voice was quiet.

McCoy had the grace to look sheepish. “Sorry, Tom.”

Lutton waved away the apology as McCoy continued unabated. “I just can’t believe it! You mean he made a vaccine for this monstrosity of a virus, a virus that _he’d_ created, and then he had the effrontery to _destroy_ it? That’s the next thing to sacrilege, Tom!”

“Well, yes, it is. But look at it from the other angle, Bones.”

McCoy looked quizzical. “How do you mean?”

“Let’s say he’d kept the specs for the vaccine and given them to the Klingon government. What would that suggest to you?”

Everyone looked at each other.

“Biological warfare,” Montgomery Scott whispered.

After a long moment, McCoy spoke. “Tom, forgive me if I’m talking out of turn here, but . . . how well do you actually know this Kovacs?”

Lutton sighed. “Not as well as I probably should, but he is one of my delegates. Why do you ask?”

“Because—well, how do you know he’s telling the truth? How do you know that he didn’t give the vaccine to the Klingon government after all?”

Lutton sighed again. “I don’t.”


	13. Chapter 13

The serum had been duly created and administered, the warp and impulse engines had been restored to their full capacity, and the _Enterprise_ was returning at best speed to Opalescia Tau. Officially, Spock was off duty until the next morning. Unofficially, however, he could not describe himself as being at leisure. He had a sensitive matter to raise with T’Anna, and it was not one he cared to raise there in the briefing room, with its distinct lack of ambience. He searched her face, which remained pale. “T’Anna, are you overtired?”

“Not precisely overtired, Spock, but I should hardly object to a respite.”

“Would you care to accompany me to the music room by way of your quarters?”

“The music room?” She regarded him in consternation. “But we performed in the noon concert only today. Rehearsals will not resume until next week.” Her face paled still further. “Spock, is something wrong? Has something happened to your memory? Was the serum not effective?”

Spock touched her face. “I am quite well, T’Anna. Please forgive me for frightening you. There is nothing wrong with my memory.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

She took a deep breath and finally nodded.

“I suggested that we visit the music room because I have had ample occasion to observe that you appreciate places of beauty, and I believe that for you, the music room is one such place.”

“It is,” she whispered. “It is indeed.” This time her voice was steadier, and the color was returning to her face.

“Would refreshment be of help?”

“I must admit, I am rather thirsty.”

Minutes later, T’Anna keyed in the door code for her quarters; Spock followed her in. Entering, she retrieved the peach drink from the refrigerator and seated herself in one of two generic Starfleet-issue chairs that faced the viewscreen. Spock noted the sound of her rapid typing as he moved to the bedroom, where he had placed the intricately worked barrel-topped chest that his father had given him upon his departure for Starfleet Academy. “Take this chest with you, Spock, and use it well,” Sarek had instructed. “And when you look upon it, remember the heritage of the Vulcan artisans who created it, and remember also your own duty as a Vulcan.” “I shall always remember both my heritage and my duty,” he had replied. At present, both were uppermost in his mind. He opened the chest, retrieved the key, and crossed back to T’Anna, who had concluded her typing and was now finishing the last of her drink. The MESSAGE SENT notification was prominently displayed.

“May I?” He indicated the second chair.

“Certainly.”

He read the message: _“Kindly recall that the person who crossed the Atlantic Ocean in 1492 was Columbus, not Columbo. In this instance, a single syllable makes all the difference between a seafarer and a homicide detective. True, both were discoverers, but only one sought to discover the identity of murderers.”_

He looked a question at her.

“I began my working life as a junior editor of Starfleet training manuals,” she explained. “It was during that assignment that I met my first mentor. He encouraged me in my efforts to pursue a diplomatic career. Since that time, I have graduated to editing the occasional essay for a very young cousin of mine whose dream it is to study one day at the Vulcan Science Academy.” Her expression became wistful, her eyes soft.

Spock, watching this transformation, caught his breath. Until now, he had never understood what humans meant when they described their hearts as being full. He had dismissed the assertion as illogical and imprecise, but now he recognized the truth of it. He realized that she was regarding him expectantly.

“Spock,” she said. “Shall we go to the music room now, as you suggested?”

Spock nodded; he couldn’t find his voice. When they reached the music room, he led her to a brocaded sofa that faced one of the room’s tall arched windows. He seated her and then himself, watching her as she watched the stars sweep by. This was the proper time to act, to ask the question he had contemplated asking for many days now. He had harbored misgivings as to whether the spark engendered by the _pon farr_ was the principal reason for his desire to continue their relationship. The affair of the serum had convinced him otherwise, however, proving beyond a doubt that he and T’Anna were eminently and entirely suitable for each other, compatible both personally and professionally. With her, there was no need to rely on illusion or to keep his thoughts or inclinations hidden. He was astonished at his good fortune. He could well imagine his father cautioning him to wait, to refrain from acting in haste. But he knew that if T’Anna were to accept his offer, the two of them would perforce spend a very great deal of time through the years waiting to see each other. Further delays would be illogical. It was time.

“T’Anna.”

He had spoken her name in a perfectly ordinary voice, or so he thought, yet he could see the color draining from her face again. He knelt by her side and took her hands in his. “T’Anna, forgive me. It was not my intention to frighten you. I would never wish to do so. Indeed, I—” But he couldn’t continue. The confidence of a few moments ago had deserted him.

“Spock!” She searched his face. “Are you unwell? Did the

serum . . . ?”

“No, T’Anna, I remain quite well.”

“Then why—Spock, is something wrong?”

He regarded her for a long moment. “I should like to ask you something, T’Anna. Something for which you may well judge me and . . . find me wanting.”

“I could never judge you, Spock. Nor could I find you”—her voice trembled—“wanting.”

Spock did not reply, for his awareness had centered itself on their intertwined hands. Hers were very cold, he noted. He sought to warm them as best he might.

“T’Anna, are you ill?”

“No, Spock. Not at present.” And she offered him a tentative smile.

He caught his breath, marveling at her grace and loveliness. Time fell away as he gazed into her eyes, today shining clear and blue as the ocean ungovernable. He stood in the middle distance, a still observer, a portrait painter. He knew that he must speak, but he could not find the proper words with which to do so. _Ask_ , he instructed himself sternly. _Ask and accept the answer given._ “T’Anna,” he said quietly at last, “envoy to Vulcan, homeworld Vulcan”—he paused once more—“would you do me the very high honor of becoming my wife?”

“Spock,” she whispered as her eyes went wide.

He willed himself not to flinch. _Shall I be judged despite all assurances to the contrary?_

“Please know,” she said, “that it will be my highest honor, Spock. Thank you,” she concluded as the tears came.

He took her in his arms.

Somewhat later, they returned to her quarters. It was time to speak with Sarek.

* * *

 

Spock seated T’Anna and then himself at the table before the viewscreen. “Am I to understand,” he said softly, “that you have no family members on Vulcan who can speak on your behalf in accordance with our marriage laws?”

“That is correct.” It was barely a whisper.

“Acknowledged.” He took her hands. “T’Anna, there is something you must know.”

She looked at him.

“For many years, relations between my father and me have been less than ideal. Indeed, they might suitably be described as problematic. Although our current state appears to be one of détente, it is likely that my father will respond to the idea of our marriage with considerable resistance. I inform you of this contingency so that you may prepare yourself.”

She nodded. “I understand, Spock. Thank you for confiding in me.”

“There is no need for thanks,” he demurred. “It is only logical that I impart this information to you at this time.”

“It is more than logical, Spock. It is also kind.”

“It is your due, T’Anna, as the person whom I wish to marry.”

“Thank you, Spock,” she said. “I spent half a lifetime thinking I would never hear such words as those. Not after—” A tear rolled down her cheek.

He brushed the tear away with his fingertips. “Not after what happened in the past?”

“Precisely.” Once more, it was barely a whisper.

“T’Anna, I will not judge you for what happened in the past. Truly.”

“Thank you, Spock,” she repeated. She took a breath and spoke composedly. “I am ready to proceed.”

“Acknowledged.” He rose and walked to the intercom. “Spock to bridge.”

“Uhura here.”

“Lieutenant Uhura, please hail Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan on the diplomatic frequency and route the communication to this room.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned to the viewscreen, which hummed as his father’s familiar aristocratic profile glowed into view. “Ambassador Sarek is on the line, sir.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Spock reseated himself.

“Spock,” his father said. “I convey greetings from Vulcan to the Federation.”

“I am honored by your greetings,” Spock replied by rote.

“Ambassador T’Anna, I convey greetings from Vulcan to Earth.”

“I am likewise honored, Ambassador Sarek.”

Sarek’s face was impassive. “What is the nature of this communication, Spock?”

“It concerns a matter of some personal importance. May we speak?”

“Very well,” said Sarek. “Let us speak. What is this personal matter, Spock?”

“That matter is this: In accordance with the laws and customs of Vulcan, I hereby inform you of my intention to marry.”

“Indeed?” Sarek lifted an eyebrow. He had reacted identically upon learning he was suspected of murder.

“Indeed.” Spock’s voice was perfectly level. “I wish to marry T’Anna, envoy to Vulcan, homeworld Vulcan. I am requesting your consent to this marriage in accordance with our laws and customs. Be advised that my proposal of marriage has been accepted. Be further advised that the envoy has no family members on Vulcan with whom to confer.”

Sarek turned to T’Anna, regarding her with a steely dark gaze from which—admirably—she did not flinch. Spock supposed that such nonverbal confrontations were all in the line of duty for her. Years of prodding dilatory ambassadors into action and soothing ill-tempered governors into cordiality had clearly stood her in good stead. All the same, he hoped for both T’Anna’s sake and his own that her wordless battle of wills with his father would not last much longer.

Fortunately, it didn’t. “Do you truly wish to marry my son, Ambassador T’Anna?”

“I do, Ambassador Sarek. Very much.”

Sarek regarded the two of them speculatively. “I should like to speak with you privately for a moment, Spock. Ambassador T’Anna, if you will excuse us.”

“Of course.” She turned to Spock, mimed opening and closing a door, and held out her hand. In response, he gave her the key to the music room. She mouthed her thanks. He touched her hand briefly.

He said to his father. “Please stand by. I must make the necessary arrangements.”

Sarek nodded. “I await your return.”

Spock summoned the quartermaster. T’Anna, meanwhile, moved to the doorway, just beyond Sarek’s range of vision. Spock crossed to her, searching her face and finding it a study in lively apprehension. “Do not fear, T’Anna.” He put a hand to her face. “All is, and shall remain, well between us.”

“Thank you, Spock,” she whispered.

Someone tapped on the door. Spock hastily retreated into the suite and clasped his hands behind his back as T’Anna admitted their visitor.

“Reporting as ordered, sir,” the quartermaster said. “Envoy?”

She acknowledged both men with a nod, the quartermaster followed her out, and Spock closed the door quietly. “My apologies,” said Spock when he had reseated himself before the viewscreen.

“Apologies are not required,” Sarek replied. “The new restrictions on official guests, while inconvenient, do serve a logical purpose.”

“Indeed.”

“Why do you wish to marry Ambassador T’Anna?”

“It is only logical that I do so. We have touched minds and discovered that we are very much alike—extraordinarily so. It would be illogical not to marry her.”

“May I speak frankly, Spock?”

“By all means.”

“As you know, Ambassador T’Anna is a diplomat, and your station in life, while high, is eclipsed by hers. Unless this difference in station is addressed swiftly and explicitly—and ideally, eliminated—it will almost certainly compromise your marriage.

“Many ambassadors have an expectation, however illogical it may be, that others will regard them as nobles or even royalty and treat them accordingly. Would you not agree, Spock?”

“Indeed.” _Because I have long observed that you yourself have that expectation, even of your own wife._ Aloud he said, “The Terran envoy to Vulcan is a most unusual diplomat in that she neither projects nor thrives upon the pomposity to which you allude. Rather, she consciously attempts to put people at their ease, albeit in ways that are sometimes atypical. For instance, I have never encountered an ambassador so prone to self-deprecation or unnecessary apology.”

“I shall not trouble to dispute the accuracy of your observations, Spock, as doing so would be futile and hence illogical. I understand that it is your intention to marry the Terran envoy to Vulcan, and I hereby grant you permission to do so according to the laws and customs of our homeworld. Be aware that I have been asked to assist the governor of Zeta Lindana concerning a matter of the utmost delicacy, and this matter will likely require considerable time to resolve. I therefore regret that I shall be unable to perform the ceremony. However, I willingly cede my powers and duties as celebrant to your closest relative or other person whom you designate to assume them. I send my congratulations to you and my compliments to your betrothed.” Sarek bowed his head briefly. “Live long and prosper, Spock.”

“Peace and long life,” replied Spock.

* * *

 

The door to the music room was slightly ajar; Spock heard T’Anna singing before he saw her. After a moment’s thought, he recognized the melody as the one that had accompanied their initial mind-touch on the night of the musicale, and he understood from that mind-touch that this particular song was one with which she called forth her courage. He reasoned that singing constituted a form of meditation for her. Accordingly, he did not interrupt her song. Only after she had concluded it did he close the door and approach her, and when he did, it was with caution.

“T’Anna.”

She turned from the tall arched window in which she had been standing. “Spock,” she acknowledged. “Yes, the stars did hear me sing. Thankfully, the galaxy appears to be none the worse for the experience.” She managed a tremulous smile, but her pallor belied her light words.

 _I have chosen a warrior for a wife,_ Spock thought. He guided her to the nearest sofa, seating her and then himself. “Let me assure you, T’Anna,” he said as he took both of her hands, “that my father has consented to our marriage and has presented no impediments. His resistance was impermanent. Indeed, he sends you his compliments and offers me his congratulations.”

“Thank you, Spock,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

They sat for a moment in silence. Presently she said, “I find it only right, given our forthcoming marriage, that I should make you aware of my history with my father, just as you have made me aware of your history with yours.”

“You may reciprocate if you wish to do so, T’Anna, but only if doing so truly _is_ your wish.”

“It is,” she said. “Spock, please understand that my father and I—” She swallowed.

“Please tell me, T’Anna. I will not judge you.” He interlaced her fingers in his. “All is well between us. Truly.”

“Thank you, Spock.” But her eyes were sad. “I believe that my father would have preferred me to be another sort of woman altogether: making my home with an entirely conventional husband, keeping his house for him, fulfilling his orders without complaint. I was not that woman, nor could I pretend to be. Instead, I was—and remain—a fighter. And we did fight, terribly. Spock, I can tell you now that . . . that I miss him. Very much.”

Tears rolled down her cheek; Spock brushed them away.

“He and I were so much alike, you see, so very much alike. I wished, especially in later years, to know him not as a father, but as a friend, an equal. Such a knowing would surely have forestalled much of the strife between us. I never wished for that strife, yet I found myself unable to avoid it.” She sighed. “I dreamed of a career in diplomacy in large part so that I might guide others to the peace which I myself knew but rarely.”

“And I,” he replied, “must admit that for a great many years, my view of women was very much like your father’s.”

She stiffened almost imperceptibly.

“I need hardly remind you that on Vulcan, women are almost universally regarded as being the property of their husbands.”

“No, Spock.” Her expression was carefully neutral. “You need hardly remind me of that.”

“With time, I have come to realize that although that view is widely held, it is also flawed, for it is illogical that men should be treated as dominant and women subordinate for any reason at all, let alone because of their chromosomal makeup.”

She waited.

“Let me assure you that I no longer engage in such deplorable behavior, nor will I tolerate it in any form, however insidious.”

She could only look at him.

“Please know that I would never ask you—or indeed, any woman—to be my servant. You, in particular, are a person of great honor, and I wish to honor you.”

“As I you.” Her eyes misted. “Please believe that.”

“I do.”

As they returned to her quarters, Spock reflected that his preparations for marriage were almost complete. He had proposed to T’Anna and received an answer in the affirmative. He had spoken with his father, who had likewise agreed. There was only one more person whose permission was required. He knew that it was illogical to dread this final interview at all—let alone to the considerable extent that he did—but he dreaded it nonetheless.


	14. Chapter 14

Kirk shifted in the command chair as Spock entered the bridge and hurried toward him. “Good evening, Mr. Spock! To what do I owe the honor?” _And incidentally, the dress uniform?_ “Aren’t you supposed to be at liberty until tomorrow?”

“Affirmative, Captain, and I hope that you will forgive me for disturbing you on the bridge at this time. However—” He couldn’t continue.

Puzzled, Kirk searched his colleague’s face. “One moment, Mr. Spock.”

Spock made no reply.

“Mr. Sulu, take command.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Take the helm, Lieutenant Brent. Continue present course.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Kirk rose from his chair and looked at Spock. “Shall we?”

Spock barely managed a nod.

The two officers made their way to the turbolift; Kirk waved Spock in ahead of him.

The doors closed behind them. Spock regarded the pearl-white walls of the lift with unseeing eyes.

Before, Kirk had been puzzled. Now he was alarmed. “Your quarters, Mr. Spock?”

Spock nodded again.

“Deck five,” said Kirk, turning the handle of the lift mechanism in a rote gesture.

“Thank you, Captain.”

The lift doors closed with a whoosh as Kirk and Spock made their way to the first officer’s quarters. Spock input the door code and gestured for Kirk to precede him.

“Do sit down, Captain. Please.” But Spock himself remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Spock?” Kirk asked, seating himself. But even as he posed the question, he knew that the answer pertained to T’Anna, envoy to Vulcan, homeworld Vulcan.

And he didn’t want to hear a word of it.

He’d thought himself happy for Spock, even going so far as to envision such a conversation taking place in the fullness of time. But now that that time had come, he had to admit that in the darkest part of his heart, he was jealous. He berated himself for his pettishness. It didn’t square with his regard for Spock.

Who, incidentally, was not making things any easier. “Captain, I—this is extremely difficult for me to say.”

Kirk hated waiting. “I’m the captain of a starship, Mr. Spock. I’m sure I’ve heard everything there is to hear. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Spock stood exactly as he had before, his face impassive.

“Mr. Spock, you can read my mind, but I can’t read yours.”

Spock regarded him levelly.

“Something’s bothering you, Spock. Out with it. That’s an order.”

“Acknowledged.” Another long silence ensued. Then: “I wish to marry.”

“That’s not unusual, Spock. Most men do.”

“Captain, I intend no disrespect, but surely it cannot have escaped your notice that I am not most men.”

Kirk bit his lip to hide a smile.

“Captain,” Spock tried again, “there is someone whom I wish to marry.”

“You want to marry T’Anna.” A bolt of jealousy overcame him, for which he was instantly ashamed; Spock was the finest man he’d ever known.

“Affirmative, Captain. I wish to marry T’Anna, envoy to Vulcan, homeworld Vulcan.” He paused. “Be advised that she has accepted my proposal. In addition, my father has consented to the marriage, although he regrets that he cannot perform the ceremony himself. It is only your permission that I seek on the envoy’s behalf and mine.”

Kirk, listening to this recital, felt his shame giving way to anger. He was beginning to understand why Vulcans took refuge in logic. Adhering to its principles was certainly easier than contending with a welter of emotions he knew perfectly well he shouldn’t be feeling in the first place. He told himself that a display of jealousy would not only be childish and unbecoming, but also jeopardize both his professional camaraderie and his personal friendship with Spock. And after all, Kirk thought, it was not as though he hadn’t seen this coming; he’d even spoken with McCoy about it early on. He’d noticed how animated Spock and T’Anna’s conversation had seemed at the formal dinner, despite the fact that he himself couldn’t understand a word of Vulcan. He’d observed how warmly the envoy had treated Spock there. He’d seen the sparks flying between them at the musicale. He’d witnessed Spock’s solicitude toward T’Anna in the anteroom of the _Enterprise_ and most recently in the guest suite of the starbase. He’d seen all this and understood that his rational, dispassionate colleague was well and truly in love for the first time in his life. But was he ready for marriage?

“Spock, please don’t take this the wrong way, but are you certain you’re not being a little hasty, perhaps even a little”—he pushed the envelope—“illogical? Marriage isn’t something you rush into. Are you sure about this?”

“Captain, I hardly believe that insults are within your prerogative as my commanding officer.”

Kirk spread his hands in defeat. “I’m sorry, Spock. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.” _Again._ For he remembered only too well what had happened the last time Spock had planned to marry. His more-than-betrothed, T’Pring, had had the effrontery to jilt him at the proverbial altar in favor of a suitor closer to home. The incident had stung Spock more than he’d cared to admit at the time. And he, Kirk, would have done better to have kept his mouth shut now.

Spock, being Spock, read his thoughts. “Let me assure you, Captain, that I need not be reminded of past unfortunate events.”

Kirk had been duly chastised, but he needed to find out what was going on in his first officer’s mind.“I’m sorry, Spock. I know you don’t take action without due consideration. Right now, I’m wondering what your considerations are concerning marriage to T’Anna.”

Spock relaxed his posture fractionally. Seeing his reaction, Kirk relaxed too.

“We share a homeworld, Jim, and a native language.”

Kirk noted the transition to his first name with relief. The crisis was past.

“Further, we have linked minds freely, of our own accord.”

Kirk read between the lines. Spock’s aborted marriage to T’Pring had been arranged by their families when the two of them were only seven years old. Hence, they had not joined their minds voluntarily, and the personal dynamic between them had not been deemed worthy of consideration. The character of his relationship with T’Anna was something else entirely. Kirk thought again about how warmly she had spoken with Spock at the formal dinner, of how gently he had treated her on the various occasions when she had been taken ill. No, this was no arranged marriage, nor was it a union that was being undertaken blindly. However—

“Look, Spock, I don’t mean to sound selfish, but I have to ask: Am I about to lose the best first officer in the fleet?”

“Negative, Captain. The envoy and I have discussed this matter in detail, and I am gratified to report that our views regarding the continuation of service to Starfleet and the Federation are identical. Following our marriage, we wish to continue in our present service, taking concurrent leave as our duties permit.”

Kirk looked at his second-in-command and sighed. “I don’t need to tell you that what you’re proposing won’t be easy.”

“Acknowledged, Captain. Please be assured that the envoy and I are well aware of the difficulties involved, and we wish to be married regardless. Neither one of us contemplated a life of ease when choosing Federation service as a vocation.”

Kirk thought it over. “Very well. You have my permission to marry T’Anna on one condition: You must take a honeymoon.”

Spock arched an eyebrow. “Honeymoon, Captain?”

He considered how best to explain it. “Just after people on Earth get married, most of them . . . enjoy each other’s company for a week or two. Alone,” he amended, seeing his colleague’s lips beginning to form a protest. “That’s a honeymoon, and you’re required to take it. Two weeks’ leave. Captain’s orders.”

“Acknowledged, Captain _._ Your generosity is extraordinary.”

“Far from it,” Kirk said. “Two weeks’ leave on the occasion of marriage is customary for senior officers.”

The boatswain’s whistle sounded. “Bridge to Captain Kirk.”

“Kirk here. What is it, Uhura?”

“The Terran envoy to Vulcan has requested that you and Mr. Spock join her in the chapel in thirty minutes, provided you have granted permission. She said you’d know what that means, sir. What shall I tell her, Captain?”

“Tell her we’ll be there with bells on.” _Wedding bells._

Spock gave him a quizzical glance.

“Tell her we’re looking forward to it. Invite all senior officers and science and bridge personnel. Specify dress uniform. Kirk out.”

“Captain,” said Spock, “with your permission, I should like to inform Dr. McCoy of my impending nuptials.”

Kirk nodded. “By all means.” He pressed another button. “Kirk to McCoy.”

“McCoy here, Jim. Is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Bones. Can you come down to Spock’s quarters for a minute?”

“Be glad to, Jim. What’s going on over there? Is Spock not feeling well? Do I need to bring anything?”

“No, no, Bones. Spock’s fine.” Kirk suppressed a sigh. “Just come down here, please.”

“Acknowledged.”

“I sometimes wonder,” mused Spock, “whether our good doctor is capable of emotions other than excitement, alarm, or indignation.”

Just as Kirk was thinking he’d better not answer that, the door buzzer rang.

“Come,” said Spock, opening the door to admit McCoy.

The doctor entered, shut the door behind him, and looked expectantly at Kirk. “You wanted to see me, Jim?”

“Yes, Bones. Actually, Spock wanted to see you.”

McCoy raised an eyebrow at Spock, who nodded.

“Well, that’s got to be a first,” said McCoy. “What can I do for you, Spock?”

Spock regarded McCoy steadily, but Kirk saw a muscle twitch in the first officer’s jaw. “Would you please do me the kindness of listening without interrupting, Doctor? I wish to inform you of something that may well surprise you.”

“What’s that, Spock?”

“It is my intention to marry T’Anna, envoy to Vulcan, homeworld Vulcan, in the chapel of the _Enterprise_ within the hour.”

McCoy stared at him. “ _What?_ You can’t be serious, Spock! Why, you barely even know this woman!”

“I assure you, Doctor, I know her rather better than you realize.”

McCoy ignored this. “Now, I could see _Jim_ doing something like this, maybe—“

Kirk lifted an eyebrow.

“—but not you! You’re a Vulcan, Spock! You don’t know the first thing about love, let alone marriage! You can’t even begin to understand—” McCoy gave up his effort at speech and stood gaping at his colleague.

“I am quite aware of my parentage, Doctor. And may I remind you of the colorful metaphor you saw fit to employ on my behalf recently, concerning, I believe, a landed fish—”

McCoy snapped his mouth shut—briefly. “But Spock, I’m speechless! Absolutely speechless!”

“Evidently not, Doctor.”

Kirk suppressed a chuckle.

“Our captain is to officiate, Doctor, and I should like for you to attend the ceremony.”

McCoy took a deep breath and pulled himself together. “I’d be honored, sir.” He shook Spock’s hand. “Just don’t try to kill Jim this time, okay?”

“You have my word, Doctor.”

Twenty minutes later, they headed for the chapel.

* * *

 

T’Anna, dressed in her formal gown and jewels, was waiting for them.

Spock, approaching her, found that breathing was an effort, that he was hyperaware. As he moved forward, he noted an infinitesimal flash of blue. He initially dismissed it as the product of either an optical anomaly or an unaccountably fanciful imagination. However, close observation revealed that both the color itself and the accompanying sensation of its motion originated in the fabric of T’Anna’s gown. For it was not wholly black, as he had previously surmised; instead, it had been constructed using two colors so that the observer’s angle of view determined which color would be perceived at a given point in time. Thus its appearance was changeable, recalling the wind that blew over Vulcan on merciless summer nights. Black was merely the foundational color. The complement was sapphire-blue, the blue that his peripheral vision had registered a moment ago, the blue of the highlights that glimmered in the envoy’s satin-black hair. _Blue for love, perhaps, as dictated by Terran tradition: “Married in blue, your love is true.”_ Doubt struck him as he thought of his father’s sometimes fractious marriage to a human. Would T’Anna love him any the less as her husband than she had as her suitor? Was marriage to T’Anna the proper choice? Was this the proper time?

T’Anna read his expression. “If Mr. Spock and I might have a moment, Captain Kirk?”

“Certainly.” Kirk was nervous too. _What happens if she backs out? What happens if_ he _backs out?_ He retreated several paces to give them privacy.

T’Anna took both of Spock’s hands in hers and spoke confidentially in Vulcan: “Do not fear this moment, Spock. Know that our marriage will not alter my treatment of you, nor ever my love of you.”

He took this in. Presently his expression cleared and his stance relaxed. “Thank you, T’Anna,” he said softly.

“You are very welcome.”

He found her words to be more than sufficient.

He offered her his arm, both as a ceremonial gesture and as a practical precaution, for he had already noted T’Anna’s propensity for dizziness when under stress. She took his arm, and they advanced without haste toward Kirk.

When at last they stood before him, Kirk exhaled in silent relief and gratitude. He addressed the assembled company: “Tonight, it is my great privilege and pleasure to officiate at the marriage of Commander Spock, first officer and science officer of the _Enterprise,_ to T’Anna, envoy to Vulcan, homeworld Vulcan.”

Nurse Chapel, observing, thought: _I’ve always loved you, Mr. Spock: the human Mr. Spock, the Vulcan Mr. Spock. So much so that I once bore your brain in my own. But I can see that she loves you more, and I wish you both every happiness._ Tears shone in her eyes. She blinked them away.

McCoy patted her arm.

 _She’s lovely, Mr. Spock_ , thought Uhura. _And she loves you just as much as you love her._ Her eyes misted.

“I am permitted to perform this ceremony by virtue of the authority vested in me by the United Federation of Planets as well as that accorded to me by Vulcan law as the closest relative here present.” _Which I am, Spock,_ said Kirk in silent affirmation. _You_ are _my brother, not by blood, but in fact._

* * *

Spock and T’Anna left the chapel soon after the ceremony was over. It had been brief. The vows (“Parted from me, never parted, never and always touching and touched”), the gift of the opal-and-sapphire ring that had been his mother’s, and the ritual sips from the common cup had comprised the whole of it.

Reentering the bridge, Kirk had a sudden guilty thought: _I forgot to double-check that the door to the music room was locked. I’ll bet Spock forgot his key, and I have the only spare._ He glanced at the main viewscreen: all quiet on the Federation front.

“Mr. Sulu, take command. Lieutenant Brent, take the helm; continue present course. I’m going to lock up the music room. Don’t tell Mr. Spock about this”—he winked—“personal reconnaissance mission. In fact, don’t tell anyone.” And he hurried out.

Arriving, Kirk discovered that his errand had been unnecessary. The room was open, the sconces were lit, and Spock and T’Anna were seated at the far end of the room on a sofa that faced the stars.

“Loveliest T’Anna . . .”

“Spock . . . my dearest above all . . . ”

Kirk wasn’t a ten-year starship captain for nothing; he knew when it was time to get out of Dodge. He left the music room with a light heart.

* * *

 

In Sickbay, McCoy was frowning at his computer screen when Nurse Chapel approached him, PADD in hand.

“Doctor?”

“Yes, Nurse?”

“I’d like to apply for one month’s extended leave.” She put the portable computer on his desk.

“You surprise me; I thought you were going for the record books. How long’s it been, anyway? Five years?”

She nodded.

He regarded her thoughtfully before signing the electronic form with a flourish. “One month’s leave, Miss Chapel. Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

McCoy sighed to himself as she walked away.


	15. Chapter 15

Roused by Spock’s departure from the bed, T’Anna awoke to the steady motion and hum of the starship’s engines. Sensing that illness lay in wait should she move, she was careful to remain still, her head sunken deep in pillows, the whole of her body nestled in the soothing embrace of well-worn cotton percale sheets, light blankets, and the splendidly embellished quilt that her grandmother had made for her when she had been so ill, so young. _I have had a short time without illness. But now it seems that my reprieve has ended._ Resolutely, she turned her attention to the quilt. By blood and training, she had absorbed enough of the Vulcan ethos to recognize that this contemplative act constituted a simple form of meditation, but that the meditative state was impermanent at best and therefore had to be sought out repeatedly and mindfully. She knew this only too well, for she had found herself unable to meditate when darkness had visited, illness and grief had conspired against her, and chaos had reigned within. Realizing this, her grandmother had melded with her and constructed the quilt, intending it not only as a parting gift to ease her journey to Earth and the stars beyond, but as the lifeline and solace it had soon become. Only Spock knew that it had filled one of her two suitcases almost completely; only she herself knew why. Close observation of it soothed her now, as it had always done, but even so, the chill in her abdomen afforded her ample warning that she must not move with undue haste. Fortunately, there was little reason to do so. She might have been observing an exhibition in a gallery, so complex and diverse were the elements of the quilt. Quite simply, it was magical. It shimmered with iridescent clouds, gleamed with vibrantly colored lamé rainbows, and sparkled with a joyous abundance of golden and pearlized stars and planets. Luminous brocades, subtly figured jacquards, and lush velvets in an array of contrasting tones added depth and warmth, while holographic fabrics created a jewel-box effect. Calligraphic strokes of gold thread rendered maps, charts, and tall ships—along with Möbius strips, Greek sigmas, and other arcane letters and symbols—across the quilt’s surface. Scrolling across its wide blue-velvet border were more golden penstrokes, these comprising a musical stave complete with clefs. This last depicted the Hungarian song she had sung as her own since childhood, the song she had sung at the musicale as the stars swept by. Lined in doubled fleece for warmth, the quilt was backed by the same royal-blue velvet that provided a contrast for the musical stave and edged the sleeves of her formal gown. Taken as a whole, with its multiplicity of precise renderings, its fabrics carefully chosen for warmth and weight, and its rich panoply of colors and textures, the quilt embodied the ideal of gentle exactitude as her family had lived it, as Spock lived it, as she herself attempted to live it. She fingered one of the quilt’s pearlized stars thoughtfully. _The past is prelude. The past is prologue. Remembrance of things past_ _. . ._ She shuddered. She would not think of it.

On the previous evening, she had watched Spock negotiate his tasks with the calm precision and grace that enchanted her so. Were she to tell him that he moved as a dancer might, he would not believe it of her. But observing him, she had seen the luminous triumphs of Nijinsky and Baryshnikov all over again. _Spock, you make of my body a star chart._ She smiled softly at the recollection. She had never expected to find companionship with Spock—or indeed with anyone. She thought of Zarabeth, for whom life without companionship was not life at all. And in this sense, she reflected, Spock had given her life. Despite her frailty and inner turmoil, he had not only joined with her, but married her. She had retired for the night feeling uncharacteristically safe and secure. And then she had dreamed: a horrifying memory, a forced departure, a faceless enemy. _Am I so old as were the men of old,_ _that I should dream such dreams?_ But even as she posed the question, she knew the answer. _Focus,_ she told herself. _Concentrate._

Suddenly the meditative mind-space shattered into falling crystal fragments, obliterated by the nausea she had hoped to forestall. She took several ragged breaths.Swallowing once and again, she closed her eyes to shut out the dizziness, but the spinning stars behind her eyelids made her feel equally unwell, and her vision bore impressions of moving, tilting shadows. _Tilting at windmills? And thus it resumes. I am so very weary . . ._ Her abdomen felt cold, bottomless.

She sensed motion nearby. Half a second later, gentle fingers touched her cheek. She opened her eyes to discover that Spock had seated himself in the bedside chair and was regarding her with undisguised worry.

“T’Anna,” he said. “You are ill again, are you not?”

“Yes.” It was barely a whisper.

“What may I do?”

She shivered as his words registered. Although he apparently did not realize it, he might almost have been quoting: _O sisters too, how may we do for to preserve this day this poor youngling for whom we do sing? Bye, bye, lully, lullay._ Indeed, he was echoing archaic words that struck chords of grief within her—though he did not know that and must not come to learn it. _The small one left me when I was so young and so ill . . ._ Doubtless Spock would soon inquire about the possibility of their having a child together, and she dared not tell him what had happened to her all those years ago.

“T’Anna?”

She returned to the present with a start. “Spock, forgive me. I . . . there is a hot-water bottle above.” She indicated a utility rack suspended from the kitchen ceiling of her suite. Living space was at a premium on a starship, even one as large and impressive as the _Enterprise_.

“Of course. Shall I fill it for you?”

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

“Certainly. One moment.” He crossed to the hot-water tap. “How much heat do you require?”

“Very much,” she replied. “Scalding, please. Or as close as you can come to scalding without injuring yourself. I find myself very much indisposed.” She sought a hospitable angle from which to warm her stomach, but the motion only increased her distress. _Please_ do not _let me disgrace myself before Spock._ Several shaking breaths later, she managed to swallow down the worst of the nausea. Exhausted from the effort, she closed her eyes.

Presently Spock returned with the hot-water bottle, offering it to her and reseating himself. “Spock,” she whispered, “thank you.” She took it from him and placed it on her abdomen. “Thank you,” she repeated as the soothing warmth began to spread.

Spock regarded her thoughtfully. “Might heal-all medicine”—he named Vulcan’s pharmaceutical staple—“help to alleviate your distress?”

“No, I—” The mere thought of anything resembling food or drink was all but unendurable. She swallowed once, twice. Perspiration beaded on her forehead. _Not now. Not here. Not yet._ She braced herself with several more shaking breaths. When she thought herself sufficiently recovered to speak, she said, “No, Spock. Not at present. Thank you.” She swallowed and continued: “Normally, heal-all medicine would be of help as a childhood comfort with a practical use. But today—today, I fear not.”

“Please wait here.” Spock touched her hand briefly, as if to forestall her sudden departure. He rose and headed for the linen closet.

She called him back. “Spock . . .”

“What is it, T’Anna?”

“Do you believe it likely that I shall be departing momentarily?” Her eyes held the tiniest glint of humor.

“No, T’Anna, I do not.” He brushed his fingertips across her cheek before turning away again. Moments later, he returned, washcloth in hand. He reseated himself and bathed her face. That done, he took both of her hands.

“T’Anna, shall I hail Dr. McCoy?”

“That will not be necessary, Spock, although I thank you for offering.”

He lifted a skeptical eyebrow.

“I have experienced these symptoms often,” she explained. “There is very little—if anything—that Dr. McCoy or any other doctor could do to mitigate them.”

“Acknowledged.”

But she was uneasy nonetheless. Yesterday morning, she had been reading alone in the front room, Spock having departed to meditate. Suddenly the air of the suite had seemed uncomfortably close and stifling. She had opened the door to the corridor several centimeters, only to be confronted by a blast of incense. A lifetime of visits to bazaars and markets had rendered that distinctive scent so familiar to her that under normal circumstances, it would scarcely have merited her notice. Yesterday, however, it had sent her flying to the basin. The inference that any other woman would have drawn did not apply to her; the events of years past had seen to that. She thought she knew the source of the difficulty. Having lived alone for so many years, she could hardly expect to acclimate herself to residing with another person on a permanent basis, even in as happy a marriage as hers was proving itself to be, without undergoing a period of mental and spiritual adjustment. Previous such adjustments had tended to manifest themselves physically in the form of fatigue accompanied by heightened sensitivity to even ordinary stimuli, and the present circumstances seemed to fit that pattern. She resolved to rest for as long as she could today and to retire early for the evening. If her nausea was not alleviated, she would speak with Dr. McCoy privately tomorrow.

“T’Anna, I must report to the bridge. Are you well enough to remain here alone? Shall I request additional leave time from my captain?”

“That will not be necessary, Spock. Truly.”

“As you wish.” He rose and gazed down at her, concern clouding his expression. “T’Anna, until I return—“

She looked a question at him.

“Please rest if you can—rest, and heal.”

She only hoped she could.

* * *

 

The dim gray light of a Qo **'** noS morning provided the only illumination in the vast dark hangar where Khadvedor and Khoryath stood contemplating a new vessel. Its precise location was not known to many in the empire _;_ Khadvedor had been given access to this prized piece of knowledge as a mark of respect, and he had likewise entrusted it to his protégé. Khoryath knew that no one else on the High Council would have let him in on this particular secret, thinking him reckless and volatile, but he cared little for anyone’s opinion of him save Khadvedor’s, and in a few moments, that opinion would cease to matter. He, Khoryath, had been due his triumph for many years. Today he would claim it no matter what the price. Today he would avenge the death of his cousin Roxat, daughter of Tamas, mother of Tamsil.

“Today I fly, Khoryath,” said Khadvedor. “Today I shall strike a blow for the honor of all Klingons and against all enemies of our empire. Hear me well, Khoryath, and have a care—no one may learn what this day holds until it has ended in destruction.”

“Be assured I shall say nothing,” replied Khoryath. He was careful to keep his voice and expression neutral so as not to betray his rising excitement. For he knew that it was he, not his mentor, who would be flying today. He had not taken flying lessons—doing so might have aroused suspicion given his official occupation as a lower-echelon scientist—but he wasn’t worried. He would be flying in a straight line, and at the end of that line would be his contact, waiting to lead him to safety—either that, or he would be captured in transit, and having no appetite for captivity, he would take his own life. This possibility did not trouble him. What did trouble him was what he had to do now, before his departure. It was regrettable, it was unpleasant, but it had to be done nonetheless. The sanctity and secrecy of the weapon had to be preserved for the time being; not even the High Council must learn of its precise nature until well after its deployment. He said to Khadvedor, “I know that this meeting may be our last. May I show you how I have learned to fight?”

“You may do so.”

Khoryath nodded in acknowledgment, in parting. He retreated two paces, lunged at Khadvedor, and kicked him to the concrete floor of the hangar. The older man made as if to rise, apparently reading Khoryath’s intent, but his attempts were forestalled by several more kicks that ultimately rendered him unconscious. A final cut to his throat sent him to _ _Sto-vo-kor__ _ _,__ the place of those who had died honorably, wherein his person would be without blame and his behavior above reproach. He would incur no disgrace for losing possession of a prized new vessel, nor would he be executed for treason by order of the High Council of which he had so lately been a member. His honor would be preserved for all time. Here, at least, was some solace.

Khoryath knew he had to move swiftly. Suspended from the hangar ceiling waited a surveillance camera whose silent and impartial eye he took care to blind lest he leave incriminating evidence behind. That done, he boarded the small vessel and shut its door behind him, his mind racing as he scanned the intricate lattice of buttons, dials, and switches all around him. He would have no use for most of them, as he would not engage with anyone until he reached his journey’s end. Departing, he spared a thought for Khadvedor, who would no longer fight for him in this world, but whom he hoped to meet again in the next.

Khoryath had granted his mentor an honorable death. He wondered whether his own would come before day’s end.


	16. Chapter 16

The morning had been thoroughly routine—so routine, in fact, that Spock was taken by surprise when his communicator beeped. It chirped as he flipped it open. “Spock here.”

“Spock.” The caller was T’Anna. “Please forgive me for disturbing you.”

“T’Anna,” he said softly, “there is nothing to forgive. Is something amiss?” For her voice was too tight, too quiet.

“I have recalled something of importance: I am certain now that my mysterious assailant was Klingon, for he wore a shimmering tunic in the manner of a medieval knight. None other would dress so. No, Spock”—she anticipated his forthcoming question—“I regret that I have no particulars to offer.”

“Shall I rejoin you, T’Anna?” _My captain might prefer that I remain on the bridge._

“That will not be necessary, Spock, although I thank you for offering. I do not wish to interrupt your duties further.” Her voice faded to a thread. “Moreover, I find myself . . . extremely fatigued.”

 _What is it that depletes you so?_ “T’Anna—”

“I must rest now, Spock. We shall meet in due course,” she concluded quietly, breaking the connection.

Spock closed his communicator, frowning.

“Mr. Spock?”

“Captain, the envoy has identified the nationality of her assailant based on his attire. She described him as wearing a shimmering tunic in the style of a medieval knight.”

“A Klingon.”

“Precisely.”

Fifteen minutes later, Uhura swiveled in her chair to look up at Kirk. “Captain, we’re receiving a priority-one communication from Starfleet Command. Were you expecting a message from Admiral Komack, sir?”

“No, Lieutenant. Acknowledge it.”

“Aye, aye.” She turned back to the console. “Admiral, this is the _Enterprise_. Switching to visual, sir.” She pressed a button, and the console hummed as Komack’s image glowed into view. The admiral’s white hair, bushy black eyebrows, and expression of perpetual concentration were unmistakable.

“Komack to Kirk. I require immediate assistance from T’Anna, the Terran envoy to Vulcan, and from you and your senior officers.”

At the science station, Spock went utterly still. Did the admiral’s summons mean that T’Anna would now be called away? _We are but recently wed! She is not well!_ He took a steadying breath. It was illogical to theorize in advance of the facts.

“Is she aboard your vessel?”

Spock removed his earpiece and turned to face the viewscreen.

“Yes, sir, she is aboard the _Enterprise,_ ” Kirk confirmed.

Spock rose.

“Is she on the bridge?”

Spock cleared the riser and reached the captain’s chair in three long strides.

“No, sir, T’Anna is not on the bridge,” said Kirk. “She is in escorted guest quarters as per standard protocol.”

“Kirk, I must speak with her immediately. Find her and have her escorted to the briefing room. Take your senior officers with you. Tie into my secure channel from there. You have fifteen minutes, starting now.”

“Captain,” Spock asked, “shall I—?”

Kirk turned in his chair. “Yes, Mr. Spock. Find her. Get moving.”

“Acknowledged.” And he ran for the lift.

* * *

Spock keyed in the door code for T’Anna’s quarters, only to discover that she was missing from the front room. He found her asleep in bed—quite soundly asleep, in fact, even though she had spoken with him only fifteen minutes before. He was uneasy.

He seated himself in the bedside chair and put his hand on her cheek. “T’Anna,” he said quietly.

She stirred. Her eyes flew open in alarm.

“T’Anna,” he repeated, “it is I, Spock.” She looked at him, a question in her eyes. “You are quite safe. All is well.”

But she did not look well. Judging by her pallor, neither the earlier application of the hot-water bottle nor her subsequent period of rest had effected anything close to a cure. Spock itemized the few facts he possessed. After her moment of indisposition at the musicale, T’Anna had seemingly recovered from the aftereffects of the sub-quantum transporter assault. The _pon farr_ , to which her body had been so extraordinarily sensitive, was long past for both of them. Her forehead was cool to the touch, ruling out the possibility of communicable disease. Nor was food poisoning the culprit, for although they had eaten precisely the same foods and drunk precisely the same beverages, with no deviations in menu, he had not experienced even one telltale symptom. And as she had noted on more than one occasion, she was prone to indisposition when under extreme physical stress. But what was the source of that stress? He was at a loss, a scientist unable to theorize, a husband unable to restore his wife to health. _If only I knew what depletes you so. If only I couldallow you to continue resting._

“But I must ask you to accompany me to the briefing room.”

“The briefing room?” she echoed, puzzled. “Spock, is something wrong?”

“I regret that I do not know the answer to your question, T’Anna.” He ran his fingertips across her forehead in a way that years of training told him would burn the fog from her mind quickly. “What I do know,” he continued, speaking gently, “is that Admiral Komack of Starfleet Command urgently requests your presence so that he may question you. We must make haste.”

She regarded him uncertainly. He helped her to sit up and then to rise. “Thank you, Spock,” she said, once she was on her feet without incident. She moved carefully toward the lavatory. “I shall rejoin you in seven minutes.” She closed the door quietly.

Her words were cogent, he noted, but her voice remained fogged, her steps hesitant. _Curious._ _The hold I performed should have produced immediate wakefulness but did not._ His sense of unease grew stronger.

He moved to the front room. Seven minutes would not allow sufficient time for reading comprehension. He turned to art instead, choosing for his inspection an elaborate gold-and-silver Mother and Child depicted iconographically. The metals were not genuine, of course; this icon was a copy only. But it was distinctively crafted and beautifully textured, resembling to a remarkable degree the intricate metalwork on the barrel-topped chest that had been a gift from his father. He gave himself over to contemplation. Presently he caught T’Anna’s faint sweet fragrance and turned reflexively in her direction. Her satin-black hair hung down her back in a long braid. _Atypical._ She was walking slowly toward a small table on which sat a smaller bowl. Said bowl was a Wedgwood relief, white on blue jasper in the timeless style he recalled from his childhood.

“Why did I leave them there?” she murmured to herself. “What an illogical—”

At that moment, the cloying scent of someone’s too-heavy cologne wafted through the ventilation grate. T’Anna was immediately and violently overcome. Gasping, she dashed for the basin, reaching it barely in time. Spock followed close on her heels. Arriving at her side, he steadied her head against the spasms of nausea that assailed her. When the storm had passed, he guided her without haste to the sofa, seating her there in cautious increments; admiral or no admiral, he would not hurry her now, not while she was recovering. He put light fingertips to her cheek: _I shall return._ He crossed to the small linen closet and retrieved a soft washcloth, which he proceeded to saturate under the cool-water tap and wring free of excess liquid. Errand accomplished, he returned to where T’Anna sat motionless. He seated himself carefully so as not to jar her. Then he bathed her face.

“Spock.” Her voice was even deeper than usual, hoarse from the nausea that had claimed her.

“What is it, T’Anna?” His voice was soft, all gentleness.

“May I have something to drink?”

“Certainly. What would you prefer?”

“The . . . spritzer, please.”

“Acknowledged.” He touched her hand briefly, rose, and made for the refrigerator. He retrieved the drink, rinsed and dried the top of the metal can, and crossed back to T’Anna, putting the can on the low table before her.

“Spock . . . thank you,” she rasped.

“T’Anna, you are welcome, and you need not speak if doing so causes you pain. I know that you are thankful. That is your way.”

She put a hand to his cheek in lieu of further speech. In response, he kissed her hand and placed it in her lap. Her breathing became labored, from which he deduced that her spasms would likely recommence within moments. However, she was making no move to rise, and prudence demanded that he find a receptacle. He returned to the work top and catalogued the few kitchen items that were in plain sight: an antique butter dish with an ornately patterned silver lid, four pieces of cutlery in the same ornate pattern as the butter dish, a nondescript drinking glass, and a familiar Starfleet-issue plate and bowl with an equally familiar hemispherical lid, all identical to the dozens of others used each day by the starship’s officers and crew. Experimentally, he removed the lid. The bowl and plate under it were empty, and no discernible odors were present. This was all to the good. Retrieving the bowl and holding it behind his back so that T’Anna would not see it and thus be reminded of her recent distress, he returned to her side and reseated himself, again being careful not to jar her. He opened the can for her and steadied it as she drank. In a moment, when he could see that she had swallowed, he placed the can on the table. _She_ _remains at risk_ , he thought. And indeed, even as he regarded her, she groaned and put a hand to her mouth. Quickly, he held the bowl within reach and steadied her head as the spasms resumed. After a short time they ceased, and he could sense from her face and posture that they would not return. Rising, he put a hand to her cheek in mute reassurance. He walked to the work top, disposed of the bowl, and washed and dried his hands. He saturated another washcloth in cold water and returned to bathe T’Anna’s face a second time. He saw that when she swallowed, she winced.

_How can you endure this? How long have you lived in this way?_

“Spock . . . years, years beyond counting . . . I recall so little. I . . .”

Had he spoken aloud?

“I sometimes think that . . . perhaps I have lived too long.” Her voice, painfully raw before, now broke entirely.

Apparently he _had_ spoken aloud. And her reply—

“T’Anna . . .” He took her in his arms as she began to weep. There was nothing more he could do. He could only hold and soothe her, could only hope that this solace, paltry as it was, would suffice. When at last her tears were spent, he wiped them away with the washcloth. “I believe that you do not know the measure of your courage.”

“Spock, I know nothing.” Suddenly her body sagged with fatigue. Her eyes closed; her head bowed in sleep. He drew her closer, resting one hand protectively on the back of her head. Disallowing her this brief respite from illness and grief would have been both illogical and insensitive, for she would need all her resources to face the questioning that lay ahead.

But even this small solace was to be denied her, for she had begun to dream. “No . . . no . . . Tamsil . . . father . . . not I . . .” She thrashed about, clawing at Spock’s blue uniform tunic.

He took her hands and held them away from his body.

“Tamsil, no!” And she jolted awake, her eyes frantic.

Spock loosed his grip on her hands and placed them in her lap. “T’Anna,” he said gently. “T’Anna, all is well.”

“Spock, what . . . ?” Her voice was thick.

He put a hand to her cheek and was relieved when she did not withdraw. “You dreamed, T’Anna. All is well.” _I hope._ “All will be well in time,” he amended. Her eyes filled with tears. He bathed her face with the washcloth again, feeling utterly helpless. “T’Anna,” he said quietly. “Please forgive my ungentlemanly treatment of your hands a moment ago. You might have injured both of us had I refrained.”

“I quite understand, Spock. It is better by far that you woke me.” She managed a shaky smile.

 _Admirable._ “T’Anna, you are here, and I am here with you, and Tamsil Baldwin is not here and can no longer pursue you.”

“No, Spock. But he is angry. His parents are dead, I am alive, and he himself is imprisoned for life—on my account, no less.”

He read her bleak expression. “Please be at peace, my wife.” He spoke the formal words gently. “That is, if you are able to do so.”

“I shall make the attempt, my husband,” she answered with equal ceremony. “Be mindful, however, that I seem to be fighting a very long war.”

“T’Anna,” he said softly in reply, “I shall always consider it a privilege to fight alongside you.”

“Thank you, Spock,” she whispered. “Can you forgive my earlier . . . weakness, please? I only wish that you had not seen me so greatly indisposed.” He saw by her expression that she was mortified. More tears shone in her eyes.

“There is nothing to forgive, T’Anna.”

“Yet you have seen me at my nadir, Spock. I am greatly ashamed that you should see me at such a time as this.”

“There is no shame in such a time, T’Anna. Please believe that.”

She regarded him, a question in her eyes.

He took both of her hands, looking at them while he collected his thoughts. “What you experienced a few moments ago, before you slept,” he explained quietly at last, “was merely a release, albeit a painful and distressing one, of that which your body could no longer retain. There are many such releases,” he continued. “There is no shame in any of them, even though courtesy bids them remain behind closed doors. Do not fear them. There is no need for you to do so. Such fears are illogical.”

“Thank you, Spock,” she said. “You are more than kind.”

“All will be well in time, T’Anna. And I shall not leave you unless it is by your wish.”

“Spock, I shall never wish that.”

“Nor I, T’Anna,” he replied. “Nor I.”

They were silent for a long moment.

The boatswain’s whistle sounded. “Briefing room to Mr. Spock.” Kirk’s voice.

Spock rose, touched T’Anna’s shoulder briefly, and walked to the intercom. “Spock here.”

“Where are you, Mr. Spock?”

“I am in escorted guest quarters.” Certainly Kirk would know whose, and under the circumstances, discretion was essential. Granted, most of the starship’s bridge personnel and senior officers knew that he and T’Anna were at this juncture not only first officer and envoy, but also husband and wife. However, as far as Starfleet communications protocol was concerned, T’Anna remained merely an official guest. “The envoy was—”

“Very well, Mr. Spock,” Kirk cut in. “The admiral wants her in here yesterday. Come as soon as you can.”

“Captain, the envoy—”

“You’d better hurry, Mr. Spock.”

“Acknowledged, Captain. Please stand by while I speak with our . . . guest.”

“Make it quick, Mr. Spock. Standing by.”

T’Anna roused herself. “Spock, I am prepared to hazard all attempts at questioning, as is required by my duty to my homeworld and the whole of the Federation. In fact, I insist upon doing so.”

He searched her face. “Are you certain that you are sufficiently recovered to proceed?”

“I am certain enough, Spock,” she answered. “Before we depart, however, would you mind fetching my hairpins? They are in the Wedgwood bowl.”

“Not in the least.” Spock crossed the room, fetched the bowl of hairpins, and handed them to her, being careful to reseat himself as he did so. She whispered her thanks. He observed the weaving motions of her hands, surprised to discover that when her hair was braided, as it was now, her elegant coiffure was the work of mere moments, its construction accomplished without the aid of a mirror. Fifteen rote motions and her hair was perfectly in place.

He scanned the small front room and kitchen area preparatory to departure. As he did so, he caught sight of his wife’s small blue-and-gold bag. An idea occurred to him. “T’Anna, might some form of sustenance aid you in your recovery—a drink and perhaps saltines? Shall I pack them in your bag?”

She gave him a grateful look. “Please do, Spock. That would be a kindness. Thank you.”

A moment later, he walked to the intercom. “Spock here, Captain. We shall arrive at the briefing room in ten minutes.”

“I’ll tell the admiral. We’ll be waiting. Kirk out.”

Spock turned back to T’Anna, who was still seated. “Shall we depart?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He helped her to rise. He would not hurry her, even now, especially now, because he understood that moving with undue haste might send her over another precipice of nausea, and it was imperative that they arrive at the briefing room at the earliest opportunity. He thought of a Terran proverb: _Shortcuts make long delays._


	17. Chapter 17

They reached their destination without incident. Kirk, McCoy, and Scott rose to greet them.

“Please forgive my tardiness, gentlemen,” T’Anna said hoarsely. “I fear I was taken ill some moments ago.”

McCoy regarded her sharply. He scanned her with his tricorder, frowned at the monitor, and scanned her again. “Ma’am, with all due respect, what in blazes are you doing here? You ought to be resting right now, not answering a million questions.” But his tone was gentle rather than combative.

“I was summoned here by order of Starfleet Command, Doctor. I must follow my orders.”

McCoy looked from T’Anna to Spock and back again. “You’re two of a kind, you know that?” he told the envoy. “You’re just like him. And heaven knows, trying to talk _him_ out of anything is next to impossible.” He sighed. “Ma’am, may I speak with you in private?”

She hesitated. “The admiral awaits my presence, Doctor. Surely we can discuss—”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. This won’t take long.” McCoy nodded to Kirk and Spock and ushered T’Anna down the long corridor that led away from the briefing room. They turned the corner; Spock heard a door open and close.

When they returned, T’Anna’s face was even paler than before. Spock recognized the Vulcan mask of determination: eyes steely, lips grim, gait stiff.

“I’ll give you another hypo tomorrow. My other prescription is rest,” McCoy was saying in an undertone. “Although I don’t imagine you’ll feel like doing much else over the next few days.”

“No.” It was barely a whisper.

Spock looked quizzically at her.

She shook her head. She said nothing.

* * *

 

“Please take a seat, Envoy.” Kirk indicated the chair adjacent to Spock’s computer.

“Thank you, Captain Kirk. You are very kind.”

Spock held the proffered chair for her. She seated herself slowly, but the tension in her posture told him that even this motion, deliberate as it was, exacted a price.

McCoy walked around the table and took his seat; Kirk and Scott joined him. Kirk transmitted: “Briefing room to bridge.”

“Uhura here.”

Spock sat down at his computer as T’Anna opened her bag, retrieved her drink and a saltine, and partook cautiously of both. Her body appeared to tolerate them, which was an encouraging sign. Perhaps the carbonation would afford her some relief after all.

“Lieutenant, please tie the briefing room into Admiral Komack’s secure channel.”

“Switching, sir. Bridge out.”

A moment later, Kirk addressed Komack. “Admiral, with me is T’Anna, the Terran envoy to Vulcan, who is attending this briefing as per your orders. Also present are our first officer and science officer, Mr. Spock, and our chief surgeon, Leonard McCoy, along with Montgomery Scott, our chief engineer. Admiral?” He nodded to Komack.

“Ma’am.”

“Please forgive my tardiness, Admiral. I’m afraid I was taken ill a short time ago.”

His eyes flicked over her face. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Spock said, “Admiral, I respectfully request that you wait to question the Terran envoy to Vulcan until she is quite recovered. Sir, she is not yet well.”

“Request denied. In response to an intelligence communication made to us this morning, Starfleet Command urgently requires information about the sub-quantum transporter used in the assault on the envoy’s person. This weapon may cause side effects over a latency period we don’t know about that might explain the illness.” To T’Anna he said, “Ma’am, I apologize for bothering you when you’re ill, but we need to learn everything we can about this weapon as soon as possible. I’ll try not to keep you too long.”

“Thank you, Admiral. Please ask your questions.”

“Very well. Did you see who attacked you?”

“I very much regret that I did not.”

“Can you describe the nature of the attack?”

Spock turned his attention to T’Anna. Even as he did so, however, her face paled to translucence. She stood up hastily, unsteadily, clutching her blue-and-gold bag as she did so.

 _She is besieged._ Spock half-rose from his chair, thinking to follow her.

But she waved him off.

“Wait here,” she gasped as she dashed from the room.

In the long, strained silence that followed, Kirk, Spock, and McCoy exchanged worried glances. “Mr. Spock, I’m sorry,” said Kirk at last. “I didn’t know the envoy was so ill. That’s what I get for interrupting you.”

 _Twice, in fact._ But his captain had been acting under duress, and Kirk was a man of great integrity and honor. Most starship captains would never have apologized to their subordinates at any time, for any reason. “Consider the matter forgotten, Captain,” he said. “You are not privy to all of my thoughts, if only because you are not a melder.”

“No, but I wish I were,” Kirk replied ruefully, “if only for your sake.”

“Captain, if you will forgive my saying so, melds are best left to those who have undergone years of training and practice. A meld that is performed incorrectly can inflict considerable damage. Further, a meld initiated by someone who _is_ properly trained may appear in the eyes of observers to be effortless, but let me assure you that it is not so for either party—quite the contrary.”

“Understood, Mr. Spock. Understood.” Kirk frowned thoughtfully. “Is there any chance that a meld would help the envoy remember what she saw? Or process what she _didn’t_ see?”

Spock felt his jaw muscles tightening. “Affirmative, Captain. The probability of recall is quite high. However—”

However, the meld would require the administration of a purgative drug, and the attendant nausea would constitute the least of his wife’s worries. Given her frail constitution and recent illness, the risks posed to T’Anna’s cardiopulmonary system would be formidable, even grave. Hence, the meld had to be avoided if at all possible.

“I am quite willing to undergo a meld so that I might assist with the identification process, Captain Kirk,” T’Anna said quietly.

Kirk, Spock, Scott, and McCoy turned from the viewscreen to look at her. T’Anna was standing behind the chair that she had recently vacated, and no one, not even Spock himself, had heard her return.

A moment later, the four officers rose. Spock held the chair for his wife a second time, observing her closely as she reseated herself. He was concerned to see that her face remained extremely pale. He was further concerned to see that she was moving cautiously and that her caution was apparently due to pain, for she was bent slightly forward, holding her abdomen.

Presently she said, “I must apologize, Admiral, both to you and to everyone else present, for my incommodious exit just now. It would appear that being transported by means of a sub-quantum beam has long-term medical consequences.”

Spock wondered about this. On the day of the attack, T’Anna’s tricorder readings had revealed that the effects of traveling via sub-quantum transporter were short-lived. And after the musicale, some weeks had passed in relative normalcy before his wife’s nausea had recommenced. This pattern was not consistent with the timeline of her assault, despite her stated belief to the contrary. It was logical to conclude that something entirely different was making her ill. It was equally logical to conclude that she did not know the cause of her illness and was willing to ascribe it to the sub-quantum transporter for lack of another source.

“The latency period whose existence you so rightly suspected, Admiral, appears to be quite long,” she was telling Komack.

“That’s part of why we need to find your assailant.”

Spock interposed. “Are you sufficiently recovered to proceed, Envoy?”

“I am well enough, Mr. Spock. Thank you for your concern.” She managed a tremulous smile that rent him all over again. Then she turned away to face the viewscreen. And with that turning away, he understood: _She has her duty, as I have mine._ _We are indeed one._ Comforted, he returned his attention to the admiral.

“Ma’am, tell us everything you can about what happened when you were attacked,” Komack was saying.

“I should be pleased to do so, Admiral. I was waiting at the end of the queue to board a shuttlecraft so that I might commence my scheduled leave on Opalescia Tau. However, I was unable to complete the boarding process because I was assaulted by someone whom I now believe was Klingon. Although I sensed at the time that my assailant was male, I was unable to observe his face and thus attempt to discover his identity for two reasons. First, the attack rendered me temporarily incapacitated.”

 _And may have effected atypically severe_ pon farr _symptoms thereafter,_ Spock thought.

“Second, the transporter activated my communicator and apparently provided it with random coordinates, because I arrived in the transporter room of the _Enterprise_ immediately thereafter.” She paused and took a sip of her drink. “I very much regret that I am unable to identify my assailant, Admiral. Please allow me to reiterate my previous offer: I am amenable to the prospect of undergoing a meld so that we might discover the identity of my assailant—that is, if Mr. Spock is willing to initiate the meld.”

He placed his hand over hers, murmuring in Vulcan, “Wait.” A safer option was available, or so he hoped. He turned to McCoy. “Doctor, is our psycho-tricorder operational?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“Can we calibrate it to the day of the attack?”

“We can.”

Komack nodded. “Very good. Have a technician perform the test immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” said the doctor. He walked to the intercom. “McCoy to Sickbay.”

“Sickbay here.”

“Bring the psycho-tricorder to the briefing room on the double. Prepare to perform a regressive memory check.”

“Acknowledged.”

Presently the technician arrived, device in hand. McCoy thanked him and fed in the instructions. “Ma’am,” the doctor said, “privacy is typically needed for this test. Would you prefer that we conduct it in another room?”

“As you—” the envoy began, but Komack cut her off sharply. “Negative, Doctor. Further delays are unacceptable. Administer the test immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” McCoy swept the envoy with the scanner. Oddly enough, however, the device made no sound. The doctor shook his head, frowning. He attempted two more sweeps, but the machine remained silent.

Spock’s eyes narrowed. “Doctor, I understood you to say that the psycho-tricorder was in _good_ working order.”

“I thought it was! It worked perfectly the last time I used it! Are you calling me a liar, Mr. Spock?”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Kirk interposed. “Shall we examine this problem”—he quirked an eyebrow—“logically? I offer myself as a test subject. Let’s see whether the scanner can tell us what _I_ saw and thought on the day the envoy was attacked.”

“A logical suggestion, Captain,” Spock said.

“Yes, logical,” murmured McCoy. “Of course.” He recalibrated the machine and scanned Kirk with it. This time it cooperated. “What in the world? Did it just—?” He returned to the envoy, recalibrated the device, and repeated the process, but three sweeps yielded silence, silence, and more silence, respectively. The doctor scowled at the offending device. “I’m sorry, Admiral. I’ve never seen it act like this before.”

“If I may make a suggestion, Doctor,” said Spock, “I should like to emulate my captain by offering myself as a control subject. Given that my parentage is quite similar to that of the envoy, it would be logical to eliminate Vulcan brainwaves as the cause of the psycho-tricorder malfunction.”

“Heaven forbid that Vulcan brainwaves should be the cause of _any_ kind of malfunction, Mr. Spock.” But McCoy obligingly recalibrated the scanner yet again, and two more passes revealed nothing but silence. “Thank you,” he told the technician with a sigh, handing him the device. “That’ll be all. I’ll note the anomaly in my medical log. Dismissed.”

The technician nodded and left.

“Analysis?” asked Komack.

“Admiral,” Spock answered, “it is logical to conclude that Vulcan brainwaves do indeed impair the functioning of the scanner. For that reason, conducting a regressive meld would seem to be the reasonable course of action. However—”

“Very well,” the admiral cut in. “Perform the meld and report the results to me immediately. Our intelligence indicates we have no time to spare.”

Spock kept his voice level. “Admiral, please be advised that questioning the Terran envoy to Vulcan via the meld which I shall be constrained to use poses considerable risks to her health. Indeed, it constitutes an extremely hazardous undertaking.” He looked at T’Anna; who had gone pale. “Admiral, I urgently recommend that the meld be postponed until the envoy has made a complete recovery. Perhaps in”—he studied her face, assessing—“three days’ time.”

“I concur,” McCoy said. “I would recommend three days’ delay at least.”

“Request denied. We don’t have three days. We have three hours, if that.”

McCoy stared at him. “Three _hours,_ Admiral?”

“Affirmative.” Komack paused. “I am disclosing the following information on a need-to-know basis in accordance with Starfleet Command intelligence protocols. That which I shall now divulge will not leave this room on penalty of espionage charges.”

Kirk blinked; Spock arched an eyebrow.

“Half an hour ago, an undercover operative informed me that the Klingons have secured a new and deadly weapon aboard a warship that departed Qo'noS earlier today. Ma’am”—this to T’Anna—“I requested your presence because the technology of this weapon is very similar to that of the sub-quantum transporter that was used to attack you. However, the technology of the weapon works on a much larger scale. It’s designed to transport all sources of food and water on a planet into deep space. The inhabitants would die within days or weeks.”

Spock completed Komack’s thought. “The Klingons could then claim the planet for themselves, make it habitable again, and extract all available resources. Any planet with reserves of dilithium crystal or some other valuable natural resource would be a logical target.”

“That’s right,” said the admiral.

“That’s diabolical!” McCoy gasped.

Komack didn’t disagree. “We have to find that pilot.”

“The operative didn’t know his identity?” Kirk asked.

“Negative.”

Spock closed his eyes briefly.

Kirk tried again. “Did this operative happen to mention a virus intended for use as a biological agent in warfare?”

”I’m afraid not. He did indicate that the warship would reach a heavily populated Federation planet within three hours,” said Komack. “We have less than three hours in which to identify and apprehend the pilot.”

“The needs of the many,” T’Anna murmured.

The admiral was grim-faced. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.” He sighed. “At least catch your breath. Take fifteen minutes. Starfleet out.”


	18. Chapter 18

In Sickbay, Spock led T’Anna to the first chair he saw. It was black plastic and bolted to the floor, which was hardly ideal, but it would have to suffice for the moment given his wife’s obvious discomfort. He helped her to sit down, seated himself in an adjacent chair, and took both of her hands in his.

“T’Anna,” he said quietly, “please know how sorry I am to ask such an ordeal of you. I very much wish that I could spare you the difficulty and risk.”

“But a meld is—simply a meld, is it not? How does this meld differ from others?”

If he could have prayed, Spock would have done so. He thought of a verse from a Terran holy book: _Please let this cup pass from me, so that this extraordinary woman need not endure such a trial at my hands._ “To begin with,” he explained quietly, “this meld is unusual in that a powerful drug will be required to recover your memory of the incident. This drug renders the concealment of memories impossible, even when the concealment is due to trauma—in your case, the electrical shock inflicted upon you by the sub-quantum transporter.”

_He cannot know. He must not know._

“The drug prompts the recollection of events not only from one’s recent past, but from the entirety of one’s life.”

_He must not know . . ._

“In addition, the drug acts as a physio-psychic purgative, and its principal side effect is distressing and unpleasant. You experienced it earlier today under other circumstances, and I am sorry to ask you to repeat the experience.”

Comprehension and something like affront flashed in her eyes as she straightened in her chair, the better to regard him squarely. “Spock, understand this: If my taking this drug will aid in our efforts to identify my assailant and thereby assist the Federation in protecting the lives of innocents, then I am more than willing to do so. A few moments’ indisposition is but a small price to pay. Never doubt that.”

“I have no such doubts, T’Anna.” He paused. “But there is more that you must know, for it would be deceitful of me to deny you access to the whole of the truth. As you make your choice, please realize that this drug carries with it grave dangers.” He fell silent.

“Spock,” she said quietly, “I insist that you tell me what troubles you.”

He understood from her tone that she would brook no argument.

“Whatever it is,” she continued, “I shall bear it, just as I have borne other burdens”—her voice shook—“in my time.”

 _Once more, even the strictest of my training has proved inadequate._ He took a breath to steady himself. “Severe adverse reactions associated with the cardiopulmonary system have been reported. When this drug is administered to someone whose baseline constitution is fragile and who has suffered violent illness within the past twenty-four hours, the effect of the drug on the heart and lungs can be catastrophic.”

 _Catastrophic? You do not use such words, Spock._ She felt a chill.

“There are extremely grave risks involved, including”—his voice thickened—“including the gravest risk of all.” He steeled himself again before continuing. “It is quite possible, should you decide to take the drug, that death will result.”

The color drained from her face as his concluding words registered. “Knowing what you now know,” he asked her gently, “are you prepared to take the risk?”

“I . . . must be,” she whispered. “Were I not, thousands would pay the price. I . . .”

He looked into her eyes, willing her to continue.

She took a deep breath. “I am prepared. You are permitted to initiate the meld and administer the drug.”

“As you order it,” he said in a voice that was suddenly uneven. “Your courage is matchless. Know that you honor all whom you hold dear when you display it in this manner, for you are a noblewoman and a warrior.”

_It is you whom I hold dear, Spock. None other._

“Please know that I shall do everything within my power to mitigate the pain and danger you will face. Please know also how you propose to honor all of Vulcan and the whole of the Federation with your sacrifice.” He regarded her with sadness and deference in his eyes as he spoke the formal words: “T’Anna, envoy to Vulcan, homeworld Vulcan, in accordance with our ancient custom of honoring those who display conspicuous courage, I offer you the allegiance due a queen.” And he kissed her hands ceremonially.

 _How is it that you should choose_ me _for such allegiance, Spock? How is it that we are wed, which is surely the greatest allegiance of all?_ Tears threatened; attempting to forestall them, she closed her eyes so tightly that her vision swam with stars.

Spock rested gentle fingers on her eyelids in hopes of smoothing away the muscular strain that lay beneath. “T’Anna, do not ask more of yourself than you can give, especially in so small a matter as tears. What you offer today is more than thousands offer in a lifetime.”

She opened her eyes. “Spock, I . . . I do not wish to part from you, not you above all . . .” And the sobs overcame her.

He took her in his arms, soothing her as best he could. When the storm of tears subsided, he continued, “What you will see, I shall also see; I shall be with you in whatever way I can. Please believe that.”

“I do believe it, Spock. And please . . . forgive my weakness.”

“There is nothing to forgive, T’Anna. Now or ever.”

“Spock, thank you. For your gentleness, for your generosity of spirit—thank you.”

He could not speak.

After a long moment, she withdrew cautiously from his embrace.“Please forgive me, Spock.” Her voice was quiet. “For I know that it is time.”

He nodded.

She watched him rise with the fluidity of motion that was his trademark. She perceived a sudden alteration in the pace of time. Unbidden, a memory arose: Her father had owned an old-fashioned portable cassette recorder for use in the field. Once, as an experiment, he had pressed the Play and Fast-Forward buttons simultaneously. This simple electronic conjuring trick had transformed a shimmering ballad into a garbled cluster of notes—if notes they could be called—played much too quickly. The transformation had alarmed and faintly sickened her. She experienced both sensations now.

As if observing events from a great distance away, she saw Spock walk to the far wall, against which sat a recliner with a matching ottoman and table. She saw him move all three items into the center of the room. She found that she was dizzy and that her heartbeat was unusually rapid. She had to concentrate on something that was unlikely to move or be moved. The obvious choice was her quilt, but it was in her quarters. She chose the recliner for her scrutiny. It appeared to be quite old and thoroughly battered, but capacious and comfortable nonetheless. It contained a removable basin—from which she looked away hastily—and a blanket. _Fleece_ , she guessed.

Spock thought: _Someone—probably Nurse Chapel—has shown exemplary foresight and admirable attention to detail in the service of healing._ He resolved to find a way to thank her.

T’Anna felt as if she had been turned to ice, fixed in place, a butterfly pinned to await its death. She saw Spock casting brief glances at her, his agony and resolve terrible to behold. She watched as he crossed to her. The motion seemed to last for hours. Arriving at her side, he helped her to rise and led her to the recliner. This motion too seemed to require hours to complete. Finally, he seated her with deliberate care and pressed a hand to her shoulder briefly: _I shall not leave you comfortless._

She swallowed, nodded. She willed herself not to look at him. _The fear in my eyes would pain him so. He believes that I blame him, which I do not. I know my duty as he knows his. Please let him realize that._ She watched him move to the supply closet and retrieve a score of washcloths. _Well begun is half done. Well begun is half done_ . . .

Spock faced the supply closet, thinking: _She is terrified._ _How shall I reassure her?_ He suddenly recalled the request she had made for a hot-water bottle to relieve her nausea: _“Scalding, please.”_ He scanned the shelves and was grateful to discover that one of them did indeed contain a hot-water bottle. That much, at least, he could do for her, to second her in the battle that lay ahead. This knowledge afforded him a measure of comfort. He untwisted the cap with a strong sense of _déjà vu_. He would fill the bottle only when all else was prepared. He wondered what other things might ease her way. Then he saw it, there on the shelf, next to the vial of purgative powder: the bottle of heal-all medicine. _Elementary. Elegant._ _Thank you, Dr. M’Benga._ He retrieved the bottle and dosing cup, both of which, according to Vulcan custom, were opaque rather than transparent. He poured in the medicine until it reached the top line of the cup and stirred in the powder. Experience told him that once it was dissolved, the powder would have no texture, no taste, no odor. T’Anna would perceive only a flavor that she recognized from her childhood and found comforting. This solace would be paltry, he knew, but it would have to suffice.

T’Anna registered motion immediately behind her. A half-second later, she identified it as a hand approaching her shoulder before it came to rest there: Spock. Resolutely, she continued to face forward.He seemed to understand why, for he spoke in her ear, low and soothingly: “Know that what you will sense is merely a release. There is no shame in release. Remember that. Let what you see and feel come; then let it go. Know too that I shall take away as much of the pain as I can. Know that your courage ennobles you. And know most of all that I honor you.”

“As I you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

“Thanks are not required,” he said. “Only know that I shall second your efforts.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

He stepped back and signaled to McCoy, who had been keeping silent watch in the corridor fronting Sickbay. The doctor moved quickly to T’Anna’s side, scanned her, and affixed a heart monitor to the front of her blue silk dress. The monitor display immediately turned green.

“Doctor,” Spock asked quietly, “is that monitor silent?”

“It is,” replied McCoy. “You want it to stay green, obviously. Yellow is a warning. Red means you’d better abort immediately.” He crossed the room and settled himself in a chair at a discreet distance from the proceedings. Spock was grateful. He retrieved the hot-water bottle and cap, crossed to the tap, and ran the water till it steamed. Then he filled the bottle, twisted the cap, and verified that the seal was secure.

T’Anna schooled her features and sat motionless. _Well begun is half done. Well begun is half done._

Spock crossed to face her and proffered the hot-water bottle. She took it, mouthed her thanks, and placed it on her abdomen. _Well begun is half done. Well begun is half done_ . . . She watched his hands lift the dosing cup so that it was near her lips. She took the cup from him and drank. She realized at once that he had stirred the purgative powder into heal-all medicine, and this latest kindness on his part brought tears to her eyes. A rainbow of sparks fell across her field of vision, melting into darkness a moment later. She closed her eyes, instinctively gripping the sides of the basin for support as the first of the waves broke.

As if in labor, she groaned from deep within as wave after mounting wave of illness washed over her, tore through her, rent her with fire and ice. She perceived Spock’s hands coming to rest on her forehead and temple, steadying her head against the raw force of the waves that assailed her.

 _Out of the deep do I cry unto you_ . . . _out of my deepest darkness, hear my voice_ . . . _out of the deep_ . . . _Spock, know what I know_ . . . _Spock, my changeless one, know these things of me_ . . .

A cacophony of images rose before her:

Her mother teaching her to read, holding up a book honeycombed with colorful cross-sections of houses, ships, trains, and all the people in them: _What do you see? What is happening here? And here? And here?_ Her mother drawing, coaxing from penciled lines a woman’s face with an expression so soft that it floated on the page . . . _Spock, even so gentle as you, even thus_ . . . Her father cutting rough-textured paper, transforming it into lace . . . _thus he was, Spock, even as you are, so careful, so deft_ . . . Her father marveling with her as airplanes on parade danced a ballet of sound, of light, of motion. Her father, reciting the Lord’s Prayer with her in the depths of the night till leaves shimmered gold and a deep voice sounded from within. Her mother, her father playing diverse instruments: the piano, the clarinet, the organ, the mandolin, the recorder, the violin . . . taking her to museums where colors and lines spilled into peace and soft light . . . taking her to concerts where she saw music as colors, as textures in motion, as emotions enigmatically displayed . . . watching her play the piano, the harp. Herself and her father . . . _mein Vater, mein Vater_ . . . seemingly opposed, their differences born of essential likeness. Herself and her mother, close always as sisters, talking and laughing. Herself and her books, her perpetual solace. Herself a butterfly taking wing, shedding grief through words and music . . . _every valley shall be exalted_ . . . Herself singing of pride, of depths of longing she had not then known she possessed.

The scene darkened. An uncle, hers by blood, defiling her body. Her father transfixed with horror and rage as he discovered them. _I cannot confront this man, this man of my blood, my uncle, for my father_ . . .mein Vater, mein Vater . . . _sent him away in rending enough, and now he is long dead_ . . . _both these men of my blood, my father, my uncle_ . . . _both are dead, long dead, as is my uncle’s wife_ . . . _she a proud Klingon, dead also, dead by her husband’s hand . . . I sing her name . . . I sing of proud Roxat who crossed the river of blood to purge her dishonor_ . . . _and these long years since, the matter has been sealed, bound away_ . . . _Spock, the one whom you saw, the one called Tamsil, the one of whom I dreamed, it was he, my cousin, this uncle’s son, this aunt’s son . . . it was he who attempted to break the seal, who thought me the source of our family’s shame, who bound me to witness the death of Roxat . . ._

Spock schooled his features with an effort as rage, disbelief, and horror washed over him in equal measure. Comprehension steadied him, as it almost always did, for her revelation was the key. What had happened to her in that long-ago year was the source, or one source, of her many difficulties.Despite the advantages afforded her by her background, her intelligence, and her education, she had been deprived of safety. “I do not come to you whole,” she had said on the night of their first joining. Now he understood that he had been meant to construe those words in more than one sense, for like so many survivors of trauma, she had felt compelled to reconstruct her persona after the fact. Meticulous by nature, she had been able to effect the transformation, but the act of doing so had taken its toll on her psyche. Small wonder that her body should rebel via frail health, that her mind should seek both escape and reassurance, even when they were diametrically opposed, as they so often were.

 _I cannot break the fragile peace I mark from world enough and time away_ . . . _I cannot know the small one who came and left me so incompletely and so soon, fighting to depart, fighting to remain, racking me with fire and ice_ . . . _O sisters too, how may we do for to preserve this day this poor youngling for whom we do sing? Bye, bye, lully, lullay_ . . . _I also was young, only thirteen_ . . . her long resultant illness . . . _lully, lullay_ . . . her grandmother, sewing stars and planets onto sumptuous fabrics for her so that she might rest . . . _lully, lullay_ . . . _et lux perpetua luceat eis_ . . . _luceat_ . . . _and now, Spock_ . . . _my dearest above all, who made of my body a harp, a cimbalom, a star chart_ . . . _Spock, know this of me: This small one at my core, Spock_ . . . _yours and mine_ . . . _he was yours and mine_ . . . _parted from me_. . .

Spock thought: _Small one at her core? Yours and mine?_ Suddenly awash in awe, he barely managed to maintain the hold. And then it registered.

He held on to the connection for dear life. He felt himself begin to stumble and righted his body reflexively, taking several steadying breaths.

McCoy, who had been observing events unobtrusively for several minutes, rose, moved to within a yard of his colleague, and stopped short. “Ease up, Spock,” he said gently. “Don’t let it get to you.”

_No. No. Not everything one sees in a meld is true. The mind is a house of dreams, imaginings, chimeras._

And yet there had been many indications that this was not a dream at all. The first of these had been the recommencement of T’Anna’s indisposition long after the cessation of the _pon farr_. She had experienced fatigue and nausea, the latter so severe that it had made her violently ill. Next had come a conversation with McCoy to which he himself had not been privy and which had left her pale and silent. A subsequent onslaught of nausea had sent her hurrying from the briefing room with her blue-and-gold bag and returning with her hands on her abdomen and her face all but translucent. All of the puzzle pieces had been laid out before him, yet he had not thought to assemble them. And T’Anna, for reasons of her own, had told him nothing. Except, he realized, that such a thing had happened to her once before: _I cannot know the small one who came and left me so incompletely and so soon._ It had happened before, and now, by all indications, it was happening again. And for both their sakes, he could not, must not think of it. He had to accept, to persevere, to continue.

 _Spock_ . . . _my dear Spock_ . . . _he who loosed the beam that brought me here did me a kindness, although he did not know it, could not dream it, for he brought me to you, brought you to me_ . . . _he did not know, could not have known_ . . . _he is known to all among us . . . he is his own . . . no one rules him, although one has tried . . . his empire’s rulers must find him, find him and rule him now . . . he was my cousin also . . . he too sought revenge upon me for the honor of Roxat . . . only picture his face, Spock_ . . . _for I could not, for I had eyes that saw not_ . . .

 _A rogue agent,_ Spock thought as the man’s image appeared in sharp definition—dark hair, hooked nose, furtive eyes, trim build—followed by his name: Khoryath. This, then, was T’Anna’s attacker, whose image had lain hidden in her mind until this moment. _Known to all among us._ A rogue agent, infamous in the diplomatic community. More, an agent so consumed with the need for revenge that he would risk his life for it. Indeed, this would explain much. He maintained the connection, relief in his heart. _It is this information which the admiral seeks. A second meld will not be necessary. That is, if she—No! For her sake I must not think of such things!_ He calmed himself with an effort and continued to steady his wife’s head against the nausea that shook her so. He cast a glance at the heart monitor. The display flashed yellow, but he was disinclined to terminate the meld, for he sensed that she had more to tell him.

 _Spock, my changeless one_ . . . _my truest anchor_ . . . _my kindest respite_ . . . _my Rock of Gibraltar_ . . . _my balm of Gilead_ . . . _my dearest above all_ . . . _please forgive my unknowing_ . . . _blood built a small house inside me, but I did not know it, could not dream it, for I knew my body to be a desert after these long years_ . . . _Spock, know that I could not save him_ . . . _O my gentlest one, my changeless one_ . . . _my anchor in the whirling sea of stars_ . . . _you alone whose hands sculpt me_ . . . _years before I tore myself free, before I came to the stars_ . . . _the small one departed me then also, before its time_ . . . _Spock, I have known you since before the beam was loosed_ . . . _parted from me, never parted_ . . . _Spock_ . . . _never and always touching and touched_ . . . _you above all whom I love, whom I honor_ . . . _so much unlike him, unlike the one of my blood whom I knew but rarely, yet of whom one knowing was all too much, even as my father sent him away, it could not suffice_ . . . _he could do nothing_ . . . mein Vater, mein Vater . . . _he had to hold honor safe . . . for all our sakes . . . he had no choice, none . . . gentlest one, changeless one . . . please see what I cannot, please know what I must not, bear my secret safe always . . . bear it as I bore your small one . . . parted from me . . . he is lost now, lost to us both, lost among swirls of music, washes of color . . . Spock, dearest above all, truest, gentlest . . . be my eyes, my heart, my hands . . . I must make myself safe once more . . . only forgive my weakness, for which I must part from you . . . forgive me . . . you must share your strength with another . . ._

He drew up short. _What other?_ _I would choose none but you._

_I have not your strength . . . I must bear myself away, just as I bore your secret . . . one week . . . two? . . . Spock, forgive me . . . into your kind eyes that know calm, your careful hands that sculpt love, do I commend my spirit . . . out of the deep do I cry unto you . . . hear my voice . . . forgive me, Spock . . . I have never put my hope in any other . . . who can show both anger and graciousness, but to me you have shown graciousness only and always . . ._

_O my changeless one, my anchor, my respite . . . forgive me . . . only you know what rends me . . ._ _I have fallen from a great height . . . I am become an animal, a being, incapable of subtlety, speech, motion . . . Spock . . . I am lost to you, to all, to your small one once inside, gone from the house I built of blood all unawares . . . he was taken . . . unfathomably, O great mystery . . . please_ _forgive me, Spock. . . for the dark winds come, the dark clouds come, the clouds of the song I sang for all, but for you most of all . . . the darkness comes, the stars fall all around . . . . all gone . . . . Spock, will you know me when nothing of me remains? For surely I have lost you, lost all . . . my time has fled . . . forasmuch as I remain here, I am nothing . . . I am no one . . . I am no more an ocean . . . the ocean of me departed utterly . . ._

She slumped forward, spent, her face streaming.

Voices swam around her. _No, Doctor, please . . . Spock, only Spock . . ._ And cool hands supported her, lifted her gently onto the bed, positioned her head carefully among its many pillows, covered her with sheets and blankets, and bathed the terrible waters of her struggle from her face.

Clawing her way through darkness, she found that although her breathing was labored, her thoughts were mercifully clear. At last, with a final tremendous effort, she opened her eyes. She was rewarded by the sight of Spock gazing down at her and the touch of his hands upon her face.

He saw that her mouth formed his name, but soundlessly; he had to read her lips to comprehend her meaning.

She was alive.

“T’Anna,” breathed Spock, marveling. “T’Anna . . .”

“Spock,” she murmured.

“T’Anna—” His voice shook. “T’Anna, after what you have endured—” He took a steadying breath, the first he could recall having taken for several minutes. He moved his hand from her cheek to her lips for a moment so that he could feel her breath on his hand. “How is it that you return, safe—” His voice broke outright, and tears stung his eyes. He turned away from her so that she would not observe his tears and assume blame for them. He retrieved a washcloth from the table and wept silently till no more tears came. The moment passed quickly, for which he was grateful, because he did not wish to be parted from her for even one more moment, for any reason. T’Anna was a miracle, simply because she was alive at this moment. Not one in a thousand could have withstood the trial she had endured. And yet, impossibly, she had overcome the odds.

“T’Anna, most noble lady . . . you have come home.”

She found that she was floating, drifting away from the pain in her throat and abdomen. She had scarcely registered his words before sleep claimed her.


	19. Chapter 19

“Spock,” said McCoy quietly from several feet away. “May I?” He gestured toward the bed where T’Anna lay sleeping.

Spock acknowledged the doctor with a nod but did not remove his hands from his wife’s face.

McCoy crossed to the bed and seated himself in the chair across from Spock’s. “How is she, Spock?”

“I believe you would call her condition stable, Doctor. However, she is not yet fully recovered.”

“That’s one way of putting it, Spock.” McCoy checked T’Anna’s heart monitor and scanned her with his tricorder. “You never change, do you?”

”On the contrary, Doctor. I change when it is logical for me to do so.”

Wisely, McCoy ignored this. “Spock, Jim asked me to tell you that a Federation starship on patrol apprehended that pilot Admiral Komack was asking about. Seems he wasn’t much of a pilot—he crashed his vessel into an asteroid, and Starfleet Command is inspecting it as we speak. It so happens that this vessel was some sort of prototype that was supposedly capable of traveling at warp 12, and the Klingon government is no doubt furious that someone had the audacity to not only skyjack their shiny new toy, but also murder the high councilor who was supposed to fly it.” McCoy shook his head. “That’s quite a loss of face, Spock. I shouldn’t be surprised if heads rolled because of this. Literally.”

“Klingons do have a low tolerance for deceit and dishonor among their ranks, Doctor.”

McCoy nodded. “As it turns out, the vessel had some sort of major structural flaw. One of our technicians said it was so egregious that the vessel would have disintegrated during flight even if it hadn’t crashed. I don’t know what the flaw was, but I expect Scotty can give you chapter and verse.” The doctor looked somber. “The technician also found a biohazard canister with a supply of that virus you found a serum for. He must not have known there was a serum, or else he didn’t care. All the virus would do to Klingons was give them a cold, nothing more. No memory loss, no hallucinations, none of that.” McCoy sighed. “The virus was the only weapon aboard, Spock. There wasn’t anything else.”

Spock’s eyes narrowed. “Are you certain of that, Doctor?”

“I’m certain. That was the first thing the technicians looked for—another weapon—but there wasn’t one. Apparently the operative that contacted Admiral Komack planted a false trail. There was only one weapon: the virus. And Khoryath—that was the pilot’s name, Khoryath—created it.”

“But we were given to understand that the Klingon called Kovacs created the virus and subsequently destroyed the evidence of having done so.”

McCoy shook his head again. “Another false trail. Tom Lutton thinks that Kovacs and Khoryath were in cahoots—they’re both scientists on _Qo_ **'** _noS_ —and I’m inclined to believe him. But the virus was the only weapon aboard. Apparently the sub-quantum technology wasn’t as advanced as someone in the Klingon Empire would have us believe. Understand, everything I know about this comes from Starfleet. The Klingon government isn’t saying a word.” The doctor settled himself more comfortably in his chair. “At any rate, this pilot, Khoryath, had quite a laundry list of grievances. First of all, he didn’t much care for the Organian treaty or the Opalescia Tau negotiations; he thought any agreement with the Federation dishonored him and his family on principle. All of his brothers were killed in battle on Earth, and he didn’t want their sacrifices to have been in vain. It wasn’t just that, though. What really got him going was that some human dishonored a cousin of his named Roxat.”

Spock lifted an eyebrow.

“You’ve heard of her, I take it.”

Spock nodded.

“See, Roxat passed away not long after being dishonored. Exactly how she was dishonored, Khoryath didn’t say. But he did say he intended to avenge her death.” McCoy shook his head, sighing. “Seems she asked her husband to kill her, if you can believe that.”

Spock could. Klingons who had been dishonored without just cause were allowed to request death at the hands of those who had inflicted the dishonor. Such a death would restore the honor of the Klingon who had been deprived of it. This practice, enshrined in ancient ritual, was considered barbaric by humans, but Spock could see the logic in it. To Klingons, honor was paramount; hence, a life without honor was not worth living. Thus it was that Roxat, a Klingon among Klingons, had made her request, and her husband, merciful for once, had granted it. And T’Anna, through no fault of her own, had found herself at the center of events that, but for Khoryath’s inexpert piloting and their own role in averting a pandemic, might otherwise have devastated entire galaxies. Spock marveled at the Klingon capacity for revenge, even as he understood the impulse behind it. Clearly, vendettas were hazardous to one’s health.

“As it turns out,” continued McCoy, “Khoryath had spent his whole life trying to make sub-quantum transporter technology work on a grand scale, but he just couldn’t do it. Even the version he used on T’Anna didn’t work the way it was supposed to. So he created the virus and told Komack’s operative a pretty little tale about a pipe dream so that T’Anna’s life would be at risk even if the virus didn’t deploy. He blamed her for Roxat’s death, you see, and he wanted her dead.”

Spock thought he knew why; nonetheless, it was only prudent to request confirmation. “Did he offer particulars as to why he harbored that wish, Doctor?”

McCoy shook his head. “Not a one.”

Which was just as well; T’Anna would hardly have appreciated her private affairs becoming grist for Starfleet Command’s rumor mill. “Doctor, if I may ask, how is it that you are cognizant of this pilot’s motives? Was he questioned by Starfleet Command?”

“No, Spock.” For the first time since their conversation had begun, McCoy’s expression was wary, and unaccountably so. “Starfleet Command didn’t question him. Neither did anyone else, for that matter.”

“Then how can you attest to his motives?”

McCoy hesitated. “Because he left a message.”

Spock looked at him quizzically.

“He’s dead, Spock. He took his own life.”

Spock, momentarily stunned, regarded his colleague with unseeing eyes.

“He left a message that mentioned the two of them—I mean Roxat and T’Anna. He said he was about to be captured and he preferred death to dishonor.” McCoy shook his head again. “War is a waste, Spock. Such a terrible waste.”

“Then none of this”—Spock indicated T’Anna in her bed and Sickbay in general—“served a logical purpose. I should never have asked it of her. Especially not when she—”

“Don’t you say another word, Spock. I won’t let you do this to yourself.” McCoy crossed to him, knelt at his side, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Let me tell you something right now: None of this is your fault. None of it, you hear me? You’re a Starfleet officer. You’re required to follow orders.”

“But—”

“But nothing, Spock. The admiral told you to do something that T’Anna volunteered to do anyway.” McCoy lowered his voice. “Besides, you learned something in that meld, didn’t you? And I’m not talking about any Klingon pilot.” To Spock’s quizzical look he said, “I’m a doctor, Spock. I can read faces. Sometimes I can even read yours. You saw something back there. Something that made you absolutely furious, and something else that tore you up inside. Why else do you think I told you to ease up?”

Spock nodded his understanding. McCoy could be altogether too perceptive at times—which led him to his next question. “Doctor, am I correct in surmising that you knew of my wife’s . . . condition immediately prior to our briefing with Admiral Komack?”

McCoy’s shoulders slumped. “Yes,” he sighed. “I knew, Spock.”

Spock’s voice was deadly quiet. “Then why did you not inform me at once?”

“Because I thought it best that she tell you herself in her own way, if . . . if she cared to. Some women are very private about things like that.”

“I do not understand, Doctor.”

“Quite a few women experience a miscarriage the first time they try to—” McCoy’s eyes went wide as comprehension dawned. “Spock, you didn’t know, did you?”

Spock shook his head.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it. Even if you had known, there was nothing you or I could have done. I’m sorry. I know that’s not enough, but . . . I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

At that moment, T’Anna stirred.

“Find me when you’re ready. I’ll wait outside.”

“Acknowledged.”

McCoy exited.

“Spock.” T’Anna’s voice was barely a whisper. “Spock.”

 _Perhaps it is illogical to feel such relief, such gladness, but I freely admit that I feel both of these things._ He took her hands and kissed them. “T’Anna—” His voice shook. “T’Anna, that you are here—”

But her eyes were hollow.

“Spock, I am no longer . . . as I was,” she said. “What you saw in the meld was quite . . . accurate.”

He positioned her hands more securely in his own.

“The small one is leaving my body,” she explained at last, her voice a thread, a threnody. “Or has left, perhaps. The small one that was yours.”

He closed his eyes against a sudden wave of anger. _You carried my child, my son, who has now departed this life! How is it that you could not keep him safe as I kept you?_ He took a long breath and reminded himself that T’Anna had only just managed to escape with her own life and that anger was hardly a logical response in any case. He took another breath and opened his eyes, only to be stricken with remorse at the sight of his wife’s white, exhausted face.

“Forgive me, Spock,” she said, as if sensing his previous anger. “I did not know. I never suspected. I did not believe that I was able to—” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Contrition made his voice gentle. “T’Anna.” He bathed her face with the washcloth and rested his hands where her tears had fallen. “T’Anna, it is you whom I honor and cherish, far above one who”—his voice caught—“might have been. You are blameless in this, as in all things.”

“No, Spock. Not in this, nor in all things. I did not tell you all that I knew. I deceived you by making no mention of it. I attributed my . . . recent indisposition to various . . . delayed effects.” She took a long, shaking breath. “I believed that nothing could live in the desert that life and death have made of my body. My supposition has proved to be . . . quite correct. Forgive me.”

“T’Anna, there is nothing to forgive. You are not at fault. You never were. Please believe that.”

“Spock . . . forgive me,” she repeated, as if she had not heard. “I have loved you three times. I shall love you once more, but not as I am now . . . parted from you . . . Spock!”

And she collapsed.

Her heart monitor flashed red in warning. He put frantic hands to her temples, her forehead. Nothing. He tried several variants. None of them worked.

_If her blood departs from within, I can do nothing, nothing!_

He ran out of Sickbay at full tilt. “Doctor!”

But McCoy was nowhere to be seen.

“Doctor!” Spock looked left, then right. There was no sign of him. “Dr. McCoy!” He hurried back to Sickbay, to the intercom.

“Sickbay to Dr. McCoy, Spock here. Please respond.”

No reply.

“Sickbay to Dr. McCoy, Spock here. Respond, please.”

Silence.

“Spock to Dr. McCoy, please respond.”

More silence.

The boatswain’s whistle sounded.

“Bridge to Mr. Spock.” Uhura’s voice.

“Spock here.”

“Sir, do you require emergency assistance?”

 _What an absurd question!_ “Affirmative. The envoy has collapsed and may soon be unable to respond to medical treatment, and Dr. McCoy does not acknowledge my transmissions.”

“Acknowledged, Mr. Spock. Stand by, sir.”

 _Such calmness_ , thought Spock, blessing Uhura for her soothing tones. _No,_ _Lieutenant, I cannot reveal to you what is in my heart, but you seem to comprehend it nonetheless. And for that, I shall honor you always._

“Standing by, Lieutenant.”

McCoy, white-faced, came running. “Spock! I’m so sorry! I had to step around the corner for a min—”

“Go to her, Doctor. Immediately.” He turned back to the intercom, transmitting: “Lieutenant Uhura.”

“Yes, sir?” Her voice was quiet. He thought he sensed pity.

“I have located Dr. McCoy—or rather, he has located me. I shall not require additional assistance. Spock out.”


	20. Chapter 20

But it was too late. McCoy assured him that taken alone, the blood loss from the miscarriage would not have been sufficiently severe as to imperil T’Anna’s life, even in light of the extraordinary effort she had expended to survive the meld. However, when it was coupled with the aftereffects of the Klingon assault, the additional stresses of the _pon farr_ , and—Spock choked on guilt—the depletion and nausea due to early pregnancy, the departing blood became a deadly conduit, draining her of all remaining energy.

“You can go in now, Spock,” said McCoy in a voice that was barely above a whisper. He seemed incalculably old, immeasurably sad.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“Spock—” McCoy hesitated.

Spock regarded him dully.

“She can’t speak anymore. Not . . . audibly.”

“What precisely are you suggesting, Doctor?”

McCoy put a hand on his colleague’s shoulder. “I’m suggesting, Spock,” he said with a gentleness that was terrible to hear, “I’m suggesting that she can talk with you in her own—Vulcan—way. And that you can talk with her. In yours. For now. As crazy as that sounds. Oh, blast it. Spock, you’ve got to believe me—if I could bite my tongue off, I would, right this minute, if it would make you feel any better. Forget I said that. Please. Just forget it. I’m so sorry, Spock. You don’t know how sorry I am.”

But Spock hadn’t gotten that far yet. “In her own way . . . ?” When he realized what McCoy was implying, his vision narrowed so that he perceived his surroundings as if through a pinhole camera. Choking on horror, on guilt, he moved by blind instinct alone, propelled by the need to escape, to make contact with anything in the universe, even if that _anything_ amounted to no more than a plaster wall. And indeed, his momentum pushed him sidelong into that selfsame wall.

McCoy went to Spock’s side, supporting him and awkwardly patting his back.

“I—” Spock attempted, and the hollowness within him shattered like broken crystal. He found himself sobbing the deep, racking, harsh sobs of a man who has never been allowed to grieve. For he now realized that the naked time, the time that had rubbed raw his grief for his reserved demeanor toward his mother, had been a mere bagatelle compared with this fell darkness, this boundless ocean of grief unrelieved, this profound darkness that pervaded deep space and moved upon the earth, yet was without form and void. And now, experiencing this dreadful form of release through tears, he had a fuller understanding of the battles that T’Anna had fought against the nausea that had poured her life from her, that had left her so spent, so utterly weary. _How she bore it, day after day, I do not know. And I compounded it. And consequently, she—_

Weeping brokenly, Spock slid down the wall, hands braced reflexively against it for support.

McCoy patted his shoulder. “There now, Spock,” he said softly. “It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. Not right now, but—“

_Never. Not as long as I live._

At last McCoy said with quiet emphasis, “You’re the only one she can talk to right now. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

Spock regarded him bleakly. “Indeed, Doctor.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Spock, but . . . do you want me to come with you?”

“That will not be necessary, Doctor.” His eyes were hollow.

“Okay,” said McCoy quietly, giving him one last pat on the shoulder. “I’ll give you some privacy. Find me when you need me.”

Spock nodded to McCoy as the doctor left: _Your sensitivity, albeit atypical, is greatly to your credit._

He breathed once, twice, three times. He steepled his fingers.

Then he went to her.

* * *

Lightly, so lightly, he put a hand to her forehead. The flames were departing from her. The cold would soon follow.

_No! Not now! Never parted!_

He put his other hand to her temple. He could scarcely feel her heartbeat.

_T’Anna, let me not disgrace myself before you, to whom I owe the allegiance due a queen._

For now she was speaking to him from a place he could not see.

_Know this of me, now and always: I must restore my own health and life, in my own time, in my own way._

_Tell me how this can be._

_It is better by far that I show you. Wait._

_I shall always wait for your return._

_No, Spock. You shall not._

_T’Anna, I shall belong to none but you._

_Spock, suddenly you are not so calm or accepting as I recall you to be. You have altered._

_I have altered because you have altered. Because you are parted from me. Because we shall never touch again._

_Parted from me, never parted. Consider the meaning of those words carefully, Spock. Do not be hasty._

_I shall await you all the days of my life._

_No, Spock. I say again: In time, you shall not await me._

_Let that time not come!_

_Would you refuse my gift, Spock? The one thing I can offer you now?_

_Never. Only tell me how and when I am to accept it, and I shall come to you._

_I shall make known to you this mystery. Before the flames consume me, before the ice stills me, you shall know what is to come. That much I offer you with all my heart._

_Offer your return._

_I cannot return, Spock. Not frail as I was._

_However frail you are, T’Anna, I shall love no other. Of this I am certain. I offer you all that I am as proof._

_Spock, it is most unlike you to be illogical. Have you so quickly forgotten what we were taught: that it is logically impossible to prove the truth of a negative assertion? You cannot prove that you will never love another. Therefore, you may yet love another._ Quod est demonstratum.

_Let my love of you now stand as sufficient proof that I shall love you always._

_Love has room for more than two, Spock. More than two people. More than two times. More than two places._

_I do not understand._

_Then still yourself. Have you so quickly forgotten that infinite calm by which you showed yourself my anchor and respite in all things?_

_I seem to have forgotten much._

_That is only to be expected. Every day brings a new forgetting, a new memory. And new memories shall come to you, I am certain of it. Observe._

Suddenly the luminous rainbows of her opals filled his vision. Mirage-like, her image rose before him, conjured from thought and memory, seen and heard by no one, witnessed only by his mind and hers in the still space of their imagining. She stood in her formal gown and jewels, placing gentle hands on his forehead and temple. He became aware of time, of place, of space, although all three were his and hers alone. He was kneeling before her in the place where they had lived and loved among the flying stars. He kissed her hands, tasting in them the salt of the sea. _It is fitting. For you are of the sea: elemental, majestic, ungovernable._

“I must part from you, Spock. It is time.” He heard her clearly now, as if she had spoken aloud. “I am sorrier than I can say. You cannot know how much.”

“Then—why, T’Anna? Why must you part?”

“Spock, I could not remain. I was too frail. My body was unprepared. Two small ones left me, one of them yours.”

 _One of them yours._ He felt as if he were trapped among the luminous clouds of her quilt. “Your frailty. Your illness. I compounded both when I—”

“Spock, you must never blame yourself for that. I chose to join with you freely and gladly. Indeed, when first we met, I could only hope that such a moment might come to pass between us. I also believed that I was no longer able to bear children and therefore no risk was attached. I feared to speak of it with you—yes, even with you, the kindest and gentlest of all I have known. And by then . . . by then, it was too late.”

“I could not keep you safe,” he said, agonized. “I brought you into danger from which I could not save you.”

“Spock, please spare yourself this anguish. For no one could have saved me. And the one who brought me into danger was not you.”

He could not speak.

“That man of my blood has long departed this life, Spock. You bear no blame. And what you _did_ bring to me was love, only and always, as indeed I shall love you always.

“May these words absolve you of all guilt, all shame, all fear, all that which is dark: May peace be unto you, and long life, and prosperity, and a fuller happiness than you have ever known. For you shall know it in time. Know that your hands were not meant to save me in this lifetime, but all shall be well in time.”

She stroked his face to still, to soothe.

His face relaxed. His breathing slowed.

“Now, Spock. Are you prepared?”

“I am prepared.”

“I have a gift for you. Accept it now in patience, love, and peace.”

“I would gladly accept it a century hence.”

To his surprise, she smiled. “Spock,” she replied, a hint of laughter in her voice. “My very dearest. Spare yourself that. Spare us both. I cannot wait another century, nor would I ask you to do so. It would be unjust.”

“I do not understand.”

“Then observe. For it is not any _thing_ that I would give you.”

“I do not understand,” he said again.

“Spock, when I am with you, why must I keep repeating myself?” She could not keep the laughter from her eyes. “You are an expert at solving a great many puzzles which elude the most eminent scientists. You are, in fact, an adept. Yet even with you, I see that I shall have to take the circuitous way around an exceedingly short block.”

“Why must you keep repeating yourself, T’Anna?”

“Ah. So you do begin to see.”

“No, I do not see. And now, at the last, you would mock!”

“Be at peace, Spock, and forgive me. Mockery was not my intention. Indeed, it never was.”

He considered it. “No. You have never mocked me.”

“No, I have not. I _had_ hoped that you would make the logical leap rather more quickly than this. But like everyone else, I cannot have everything or everyone I want. Not for all time. Not even you.”

The floor seemed to part beneath her. He watched transfixed as her feet traced a ballet of steps in a pattern he thought he recognized. Was it a supernova, an obscure constellation? He would have to consult his star charts. _“Spock, you make of my body a star chart.”_

“Admittedly limited though my experience may be, I find that”—she altered her course—“a great many people are never touched who should be, who will consequently learn to touch others. You were one such. Before I found you, that is. Before you returned my gaze so clearly, so gently. Before you took me in your arms even as my illness flowed out ungovernable. Before we became—always touched.”

She lifted clouds, stars, planets as though they were gauze curtains. He marveled. “T’Anna! All this you do effortlessly, yet you commend _my_ grace when in motion?” The floor rolled together again. “Yes, I have observed this response in you. Like you, I studied music and art—and even dance, which is a subset of both. And if you will forgive me for sounding like Dr. McCoy—”

“Heaven forbid!” She rolled her eyes in mock horror. “You’re a scientist, not a philistine!” It was a very fair imitation.

“It would seem that your talents are legion. I never imagined that you were a mimic as well as an envoy. Even now do I learn from you.”

“Ah, yes, it did make for a useful mental diversion, especially during hours-long diplomatic dinners. But I seem to have interrupted you. Do forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, T’Anna, now or ever. You have yet to give yourself due credit, it appears.”

“Underrating myself is my lot in life, it seems, just as it has been thus far in yours. Incidentally, your captain also believes that you underrate yourself. James Tiberius Kirk is a good man. His parents chose his name wisely. He would have made an excellent emperor. However, a captaincy will suffice and is surely more useful in these modern times. But I digress. To return to the matter at hand: After a time, I promise you, you will come to love another.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Because I am quite as much an adept as you are.”

“But—forgive me—you are not an adept in the context of specialized expertise.”

“No,” she replied. “No, I am not. However, there is more than one kind of adept. Here is an example of what an adept such as I can do.” And much to his astonishment, she began to laugh, first quietly and then less so. And outright laughter burst forth from her as from a spring, whereas pain and illness and blood had flowed from her during her circuit aboard the _Enterprise._ Her laughter became exultant peals which shattered first into the bold colors of a thousand lamé rainbows and next into shimmering opals cast forth by a T’Anna who was no longer ill, no longer in pain, no longer at war.

He saw her alter the course of the constellation—nova?—galaxy?—that she drew with her steps. “Spock,” she asked, “shall I explain?”

“Please do.”

“You, as an adept, are an expert in many fields, from computing to melding. I, as an adept, am able to transmute elemental forms—and more, to journey between souls.”

He could not speak.

“You shall know more in a moment, when you receive the final gift that T’Anna, envoy to Vulcan, homeworld Vulcan, can offer you.” She paused. “Spock—”

But she couldn’t continue. She was shaking now, shaking so violently that Spock feared she might fall. He rose, eased her into the chair, knelt before her again, and took her hands. “All will be well in time, T’Anna. All will be well.” _Steady myself for what I must hear. Steady her for what she must say._

“Spock.” She continued in a rush: “Please forgive me for that which I must tell you in accordance with our laws and customs, which are now and always binding upon us as citizens of Vulcan and travelers of the universe. As of this moment, I dissolve all claims upon you, worldly and celestial—”

_Formal words, yet they fall like blows. And they are for my good?_

“I dissolve them in favor of a woman who is known to me. One whose strength will burn white-hot always. One who will fight alongside you—”

He laced her fingers more securely in his and spoke urgently. “T’Anna, there is none stronger than you.”

_My fortress of logic has fallen away, as it has fallen before. But now I do not protest its fall. From T’Anna I have learned that I can no longer entrench myself there, always parted, never touched. For the impulse to love is an honorable one._

And with these realizations, Spock knew his life had changed. From this day forward, he would say what was expected of him regarding humans and their lack of logic precisely _because_ those things were expected of him. To maintain his façade of imperturbability, to give his colleagues the illusion that he had not altered, he would continue to speak of humans and their emotions in a disparaging way, all the while acknowledging privately that his residence in the fortress of logic was no longer permanent.

T’Anna’s light touch on his hand returned him to the present. “No, Spock, I cannot remain as I was. Yet I shall be with you at another time, in another way. Observe.”

The scene altered. Leila Kalomi stood before him in the farmhouse on Omicron Ceti III, her hair a tow-gold aureole, her eyes grown large with recognition.

“On Earth, you couldn’t give anything of yourself.” He heard her words again, as clearly as if her light voice with its cultured accent had been recorded.

He heard himself tell her, “I can love you.”

Later, Leila had observed, “I can’t seem to stop repeating myself.”

He recalled T’Anna’s words: “When I am with you, why must I keep repeating myself?”

Now she said, “The name _Leila_ means ‘dark beauty,’ Spock.”

He observed her dark hair, her dark gown, her dark beauty. He could not speak.

“Spock, I was Leila. Leila was the originator, the first of my temporal forms. She prepared you for Zarabeth, the second of my forms. And Zarabeth prepared you for me.

“You loved Leila when you were under the influence of the spores. You loved Zarabeth when you were under the influence of Vulcan behavioral patterns dating back five thousand years.”

“But there was another influence also, that which we described as a mutual concern.”

“Indeed. But as you know, that particular concern was impermanent. And we had no need of it in any case, because we loved each other from the beginning. And you shall know such love again.”

He remembered her words:

_“Love has room for more than two. More than two people. More than two times. More than two places._

_“I must restore my own health and life, in my own time, in my own way._

_“I cannot wait another century. Nor would I ask you to do so._ _It would be unjust._

_“Parted from me, never parted. Consider the meaning of those words carefully._

_“I have loved you three times—I shall love you once more, but not as I am now.”_

Spock thought of Flint, who had lived for many hundreds of years: Flint, who had been Johannes Brahms, who had been Leonardo da Vinci, who had been dozens of others, who through it all had been Flint.

“Do you begin to understand, Spock?” T’Anna asked, searching his face. “Yes, I can see that you do. In time, there shall be another, born of my spirit, who will come to you, just as Leila Kalomi did, just as Zarabeth did, just as I did. She will give herself to you, and you to her fully as much. Observe.”

Presently an image materialized, altering by degrees. First, a determined, desperate child saving him from certain death on a planet he had never seen. Next, a grim-faced pupil. Then a steely-eyed Starfleet officer instructing pupils of her own. Finally, a regal woman arriving at the place of the _koon-ut-kal-if-fee_ ritual.

The image faded.

There was a long silence, which Spock feared to break.

“I . . . thank you, T’Anna,” he whispered at last. “How shall I know her?”

“You shall know her by her heart and mind, Spock, just as you have known me by mine. Her name,” she concluded with valedictory gentleness, “will be Saavik. Parted from you, never parted. Never and always touching and touched.”

She dissolved before him: a sea of opal, sapphire, satin-black hair; a low, melodious voice moving over the waters, singing its defiance in the face of the void.

Returned to the present, he felt the beat of her heart pulsing once, twice more in her temple before it ceased altogether. Slowly, cautiously, he removed his hands and bestowed on her forehead one last ceremonial kiss.

“T’Anna, envoy to Vulcan, homeworld Vulcan, I honor you as you depart.”

The tears came then. Heedless, he let them fall.

* * *

He left her bedside, shaken to his core, drowning in grief and guilt. He stumbled to the basin, gripping its taps as if for succor. He sought the release desperately, instinctively, as before he had sought release in joining with her body. Nausea poured from him, rent him, scored him— _against such fires, such terrible need, how could you fight so, daily, hourly, by moments? And I watched you and could do nothing, nothing_ —He groaned the primal groan of a hurt animal, a helpless being which knew only pain without solace. Sobs bubbled up within him, turned to fire, to ice. _I caused you this pain . . ._

The spasms redoubled. Fire and ice spilled from him. _Now I understand, for now I fight your battle alone._ Desolate, he heaved his grief, his guilt, his rage from him. There was no one to do all of the things he had done for her: steady his head, soothe him, bathe his face, tell him that all would be well in time. There was no time; there was no place; there was not. _And the darkness moved over the earth, which was without form and void . . ._

Presently his hands, slick with her struggles and his own, gave way, sliding from the grip of the taps.

_I am Atlas from whose shoulders the world has fallen, without warning and without reprieve . . ._

At last, spent beyond measure, he toppled insensate to the floor.

* * *

McCoy rushed in. “Spock! _Spock!_ What happened?”

He slapped Spock’s wrists and cheeks. The science officer’s eyes remained closed.

“Oh, that’s just fine,” McCoy grumbled. “Just fine.” He slapped his colleague’s wrists and cheeks a second time. Nothing doing. He tried a restorative hypo. No dice. He had an inspiration: He opened a rarely used storage drawer and retrieved a bottle of old-fashioned smelling salts. “Now granted, I can’t picture you wearing a corset, Spock, but let’s just see if these work.” He waved them under Spock’s nose, but to no avail. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! What in blazes am I supposed to do now?” He walked to the intercom. “Sickbay to Cap—”

Kirk came flying. “Bones, what happened?”

“It’s Spock, Jim. He’s unconscious. Help me get him on the table.”

Kirk obliged.

“I have to wake him up somehow—I’ve tried everything I know how to do, but nothing works! Even the restorative hypo didn’t do any good, on account of that Vulcan physiology of his!”

Kirk looked speculatively from McCoy to Spock and back again. “I don’t think you’ll like my remedy, Bones.”

“Why not?”

In reply, Kirk gave his second-in-command an almighty blow across the cheek.

“Jim! What do you think you’re—?”

And Spock woke up at last. “Captain, was it strictly necessary for you to imperil my zygomatic arch? And as for you, Doctor, why did you subject my nasal passages to that most unwarranted assault via sal volatile? Gentlemen, I must protest.”

“I should have known,” muttered McCoy as he plied his tricorder.

“I beg your pardon, Doctor?” Spock started to sit up.

“Now you just hold on a minute,” McCoy said, pressing Spock’s shoulder until he lay down again. “You were out like a light a minute ago. You’re not going anywhere until I’ve examined you. And you’re staying here overnight for observation. No excuses.”

”I am quite recovered, Doctor. There is no need for—”

And McCoy exploded. “ _This is my sickbay!_ What I say goes! After today, I’m about ready to resign!”

“Take it easy, Bones,” said Kirk. Spock merely raised an eyebrow.

McCoy looked at both of them and sighed. “I’m sorry I have such a short fuse, Spock. Especially after all you’ve been through today. I—”

“Doctor, please do not apologize. Allow me to do so instead. I very much hope that I did not cause you to injure yourself during my unfortunate—and sadly self-indulgent—physical lapse. And I apologize for—”

“Don’t mention it, Spock. You’ve saved my skin too, you know.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”


	21. Chapter 21

Spock input the door code for his quarters. As he stepped inside and closed the door, he noticed that someone had placed a research tape on his desk, seemingly in violation of the laws of physics. Frowning, he opened the door and rechecked the lock. There were no signs of forced entry. Moreover, he did not share his access codes with others, melds and mind-touches notwithstanding. In short, no one else should have been able to gain entrance. Yet there was the tape to prove that someone had. _Fascinating. If the logical possibilities fail to present themselves—_

He could conjure Kirk’s voice as distinctly as if it had been recorded on another research tape: “I want the impossible checked out too.”

There was exactly one impossible person who could have placed that tape on his desk. She had been beamed down to Vulcan, eyes closed, hands folded, face serenely free of pain, wearing a dark square-necklined gown which he was certain would populate his dreams for the remainder of his days, for its wearer had altered his life irrevocably.

They had wed. True, they had wed aboard the _Enterprise_ and not on Vulcan, but nonetheless, they had repeated the vows and drunk from the common cup. Moreover—his vision blurred briefly—she had carried his child. So briefly, too briefly, she had carried his child. They were considered wed and bound according to the laws and customs of Vulcan, their shared homeworld, now her final resting place.

He pressed the button to play the tape. He saw her as he had seen her on the last day of her life: her eyes reflecting the vivid blue of her silk dress, her hair braided in the intricate knot he had watched her construct without need of a mirror.

_“Spock, my dearest above all,”_ she began, _“inasmuch as I knew and loved you while I occupied this temporal form, I knew that you would not accept as fact the existence of an adept’s powers as revealed in a meld without corroborating evidence. Find in this tape that evidence, and let it be your proof against despair. For I shall love you once more, albeit in another temporal form, parted from you, never parted. Until that time and always, Spock, may you live long and prosper.”_

He watched.

He saw Leila Kalomi observing him with concern. He watched as her face altered incrementally, her features becoming those of Zarabeth, of T’Anna, and finally of Saavik, the unknown Saavik who one day would come to fight alongside him. Soon the tape ended, but Spock had reservations about its authenticity. Could it be a counterfeit, a forgery? He considered the matter. The information that T’Anna had given him during their final meld was his alone, known to no other. Therefore, it was quite impossible that the tape had been forged. Nevertheless, he would examine its identity marker to satisfy his curiosity. It was not widely known that these markers accompanied every Starfleet research tape, but Spock had often had occasion to note their usefulness. Now he input the identification command and read the information that scrolled up the screen.

—STARFLEET COMMAND ARCHIVAL TAPE NCC-1701T1254A—

PLACE RECORDED: U.S.S. _ENTERPRISE_ , NCC-1701

RECORDER NAME: T’ANNA

RECORDER OCCUPATION(S): ENVOY TO VULCAN (TERRAN)

RECORDER RESIDENCE(S): TERRA/EARTH, VULCAN

RECORDER HOMEWORLD: VULCAN

PREVIOUS NAMES (OCCUPATIONS): LEILA KALOMI (BOTANIST), ZARABETH (UNKNOWN)

PREVIOUS RESIDENCE(S): OMICRON CETI III, TERRA/EARTH, SARPEIDON

PREVIOUS HOMEWORLD(S): TERRA/EARTH, SARPEIDON

NOTES: CHANGES OF HOMEWORLD DUE TO CHANGES OF IDENTITY

—NO ADDITIONAL RECORDS FOUND—

Here, then, was the incontrovertible proof that she had known he would seek. She was indeed an adept, a transmuter of forms more lasting and valuable than gold.

And he had loved her.

He recalled the things that were so distinctively hers: her high intelligence, her refined aesthetic, her gentle demeanor, her impish humor, her fine-boned beauty. Most of all, he recalled her warrior’s instinct—albeit one she expressed only in quiet words and in song—to persevere against the most desperate and hopeless of odds. He pictured her once more as she had stood so regally before him, before them all, singing her defiance in the face of battles that never ceased.

He took all of these things and pondered them in his heart. He watched the stars sweep their majestic arcs through a vast darkness that had no end.

There was no going back.

* * *

 

**Notes**

**The origin of (my) Spock**

Although this novella draws on much of _Original Series_ canon, my portrayal of Spock has its origins in a few core episodes: “The Naked Time,” “This Side of Paradise,” “Amok Time,” “Journey to Babel,” “The _Enterprise_ Incident,” and “All Our Yesterdays.” These six episodes comprise much of my source material, advancing my premise that contrary to popular belief—and, at times, his own belief—Spock is capable not only of experiencing emotion, but also of maintaining romantic attachments. Alert readers will recognize a number of verbatim quotations from these and other _Trek_ episodes via dialogue, flashback, and internal monologue. Lelamarie Kreidler’s “Time Enough” ([ _Spockanalia_](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Spockanalia), Issue 4, Garlic Press, April 1969) is another core source, recounting the events of Spock’s second period of _pon_ farr—which, incidentally, is when Kirk likens Lian Jamison’s obstinacy to Spock’s.

**Vulcan mating and marriage**

Vulcans are biologically compelled to undergo the _pon farr_ , or time of mating, at least once every seven years, although there is disagreement as to whether the seven-year period refers to seven _solar_ years—and I have taken full advantage of this ambiguity. The events of “Amok Time” make clear that one need not be fully Vulcan to experience the _pon farr_. Failure to mate during this period results in insanity and death within approximately two weeks unless the accompanying _plak tow_ , or blood fever, is relieved by participation in the _kal-if-fee_ ritual ( _koon-ut-kal-if-fee_ is Vulcan for “marriage or challenge”; see “Amok Time” and [Memory Alpha](http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Koon-ut-kal-if-fee)) or, alternatively, by intensive meditation. In addition to fever, sufferers experience difficulty sleeping, loss of appetite, lack of concentration, extreme irritability, and the hormonal urges of a typical fourteen-year-old boy. The _pon farr_ is a source of great embarrassment among Vulcans and hence a taboo subject. Sources for this definition are “Amok Time,” [Memory Alpha](http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Pon_farr), “Blood Fever” ( _Voyager_ ), and Kreidler’s “Time Enough.”

The ritual vows drawn from “Amok Time” (“Parted from me, never parted, never and always touching and touched”) are quoted, paraphrased, or inverted many times in this novella. Josepha Sherman and Susan Shwartz depict Spock’s wedding much more traditionally than I do, besides introducing to Vulcan the common cup, long a staple of many Western weddings. (See [_Vulcan’s Heart_](http://memory-beta.wikia.com/wiki/Vulcan's_Heart), Pocket Books, Simon & Schuster, 1999.) I added the ring after confirming that Spock’s mother, Amanda, wore one in “Journey to Babel.”

**Emotions, Vulcans, and mind-melds**

Can Vulcans experience emotion outside the period of _pon farr_? I believe they can, despite Spock’s disinclination to concede that fact. (Granted, he periodically acknowledges the existence of emotions by calling them inefficient and alien, but he’s talking about _human_ emotions.)

I concur with the views of Devra Michele Langsam as expressed in “Vulcans and Emotions” ([ _Spockanalia_](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Spockanalia) _,_ Issue 1,Garlic Press, September 1967). Langsam believes that Vulcans can indeed experience and express emotions, and she grounds her arguments solidly in canon; see especially “The Naked Time” and “The Devil in the Dark.” Langsam observes, “Vulcans can experience emotion vicariously, through the mind-touch [typically referred to in _The Adept_ as a mind-meld or simply a meld]. Whence comes the capacity for such experience, if [Vulcans] themselves have no emotions? And there can be no doubt of the reality of such shared experiences, if Mr. Spock’s behavior during his contact with the alien life form known as the Horta is a just example.” Moreover,“[a]ccording to Mr. Spock, on his planet love and emotion are considered [to be in] ‘bad taste.’ . . . Apparently, the Vulcan culture harbors such emotion-laden concepts as ‘shame’ and ‘bad taste.’ . . . [T]he frown of society . . . is brought to bear on something which we have been informed does not exist”—which is the central flaw in the conceit.

There are varying degrees by which Vulcans can link minds. As “The Devil in the Dark” makes clear, a Vulcan can form a limited connection with the mind of another sentient being—be it human, Vulcan, or even Horta—without making physical contact with that being. It is this type of meld that occurs between Spock and T’Anna during the musicale; I refer to it as a mind-touch. A stronger connection—and the one Spock initiates most often in this novella—requires the Vulcan to touch the other participant’s face with one or both hands. None of the melds in _TOS_ canon show actual dialogue—they’re one-way broadcasts as far as the viewer is concerned. I followed that pattern with the first Sickbay meld, but during most of the second one, I set the “scene” in T’Anna’s quarters and depicted the conversation as if it were audible so as not to tire readers’ eyes with an overabundance of italics.

I am indebted to Carolyn Clowes for introducing a level of detail unseen in canon regarding what the initiator of a meld can and cannot see in the mind of the other participant. In [_The Pandora Principle_](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000FC0SLY/ref=pd_lpo_k2_dp_sr_1?pf_rd_p=1535523722&pf_rd_s=lpo-top-stripe-1&pf_rd_t=201&pf_rd_i=0671658158&pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_r=0YJHXE2XHH2557Q9SRV0), as Spock prepares Saavik for her first meld aboard the _Enterprise_ as a cadet, he tells her that he has never looked beyond what she wished to show him (pp. 105–6). I have expanded on this idea by postulating that deliberate concealment of specific thoughts and memories is possible during a meld and that the use of a physio-psychic purgative drug (which I’ve also invented) renders that concealment impossible. Also in _The Pandora Principle,_ Spock offers a meld as a compassionate gesture to a Vulcan _in extremis_ (p. 4), and I have likewise built on that idea.

**Non- _Trek_ quotations in _The Adept_**

T’Anna and Spock between them have a respectable knowledge of the Bible and Christian sacred music. Bible verses quoted in _The Adept_ include Genesis 1:2, Genesis 2:18, Exodus 2:22, Ruth 1:16, 1 Kings 3:24–25, Psalm 23:6, Psalm 31:5, Psalm 130:1, Isaiah 40:4, Matthew 26:39, Luke 2:19, Luke 23:46, Acts 2:17, and 1 Corinthians 2:9. The forty-part choral work in the joining scene is Thomas Tallis’ magnificent “Spem in alium,” whose words T’Anna later recalls during the first Sickbay meld. She also quotes more than once from the Coventry Carol, another sixteenth-century work. During the first Sickbay meld, she recalls Latin words from the Requiem Mass that translate as “Let light perpetual shine upon [those who have died].” In the same scene, she alludes to the Latin religious text “ _O_ magnum mysterium”—and even quotes the Hindu Bhagavad Gita: “Now _I am become Death_ , the destroyer of worlds.”

In the secular realm, T’Anna recalls lines from “Sure on This Shining Night,” a James Agee poem published in _Permit Me Voyage_ (Yale University Press, 1934) and set to music by Samuel Barber and—several decades later—Morten Lauridsen. T’Anna also quotes Andrew Marvell’s poem “To His Coy Mistress,” along with Shakespeare’s _Tempest_ and Sonnet 30—and even “share and enjoy” from Douglas Adams’ _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_. T’Anna’s quotations of “ _Mein Vater, mein Vater_ ”(“My father, my father”) during the first Sickbay meld are references to Johann Wolfgang von _Goethe’s poem_ “Erlkönig,” as arranged by Franz Schubert (Opus 1, D. 328). The father in “Erlkönig” cannot save his son from death after a supernatural being attacks the child. Similarly, T’Anna’s father arrives too late to stop the commission of the crime that haunts her.

Spock and T’Anna are both musicians. Per _TOS_ canon, Spock plays the Vulcan harp in “Charlie X” and “The Way to Eden” and the piano in “Requiem for Methuselah.” T’Anna’s signature song is “Fŭjnaka Fellegek,” a traditional Hungarian melody. The phrase can mean either “dark clouds come” or “dark winds come,” depending on whether you trust Google Translate more than Márta Sebestyén’s 1987 _Muzsikás_ CD.

**Names and nomenclature**

In _TOS_ canon, Spock’s surname is considered unpronounceable by humans and therefore is never revealed. Consequently, Spock is known as Mr. Spock when on duty and simply Spock to his intimates.

Modes of address are almost always formal when characters are on duty or attending official meetings, although honorifics such as “Mr.” are sometimes dropped by persons giving or responding to hails, and Klingons don’t use honorifics at all. Spock calls Kirk “Captain” or “Jim” as the occasion warrants, while McCoy almost always calls Kirk “Jim.” Kirk routinely calls McCoy “Bones” (short for “Sawbones” per [Memory Alpha](http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Bones)), as does Lutton, while Spock never does. McCoy calls T’Anna “ma’am” because she’s an ambassador and he’s a Southerner. Ambassadors in the _Trek_ universe are typically addressed as “Ambassador,” but only Sarek and Lutton call her that—Sarek because he is hypercorrect and wishes to maintain a professional distance from T’Anna, and Lutton because he was formerly a Starfleet captain. I prefer “Envoy” to “Ambassador,” because the use of “Envoy” permits a more poetic rendering of T’Anna’s title and also because “Envoy” is both easier to read and faster to pronounce than “Ambassador.” Spock and T’Anna call each other “Mr. Spock” and “Envoy” during the first portion of this novella but later drop the formal modes of address outside an official capacity.

In Alexandre Dumas’ _Three Musketeers_ , D’Artagnan is an aspiring musketeer who duels with the three title characters before befriending them; see <http://www.behindthename.com/name/d02artagnan>. In “The Naked Time,” Sulu causes alarm among the crew when he brandishes his foil _,_ hence the moniker.

The descriptions of [Catherine the Great](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catherine_the_Great) and [Grigory Potemkin](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grigory_Potemkin) are derived and occasionally quoted directly (e.g., “merciful sovereign”) from Wikipedia entries.

The definition of _Sto-vo-kor_ as the Klingon afterlife of the honored dead is per [Memory Alpha](http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Sto-vo-kor). The Klingon ritual to which Spock alludes is a variant of the [_Mauk-to'Vor_](http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Sons_of_Mogh_\(episode\)) ceremony portrayed in “Sons of Mogh” ( _Deep Space Nine_ ). According to Klingon belief, only those who die honorably can cross the river of blood and enter _Sto-vo-kor_ , hence Roxat’s request.

One of the meanings of _Leila_ is “dark beauty,” according to [OurBabyNamer.com](http://www.ourbabynamer.com/meaning-of-Leila.html).

The “T” in James T. Kirk’s name stands for Tiberius, his grandfather’s first name. See [Memory Alpha](http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Tiberius_Kirk).

The definitions of _adept_ in this novella are drawn from [Dictionary.com](http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/adept?s=t) and _Isis Unveiled_ (Blavatsky, H. P., Vol. II, pp. 588–590, Theosophical University Press, 1998) via [Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adept).

**_Enterprise_ ** **miscellany**

The total figure for _Enterprise_ officers and crew is given as 430 in “Tomorrow Is Yesterday,” “Who Mourns for Adonais?” “The Mark of Gideon,” and “The Lights of Zetar.” In “Charlie X,” Kirk lists 428 officers and crew aboard.

In _TOS_ canon, the _Enterprise_ could be a dangerous place for diplomats and other official visitors. Spock’s father, Sarek, is accused of murdering a fellow ambassador in “Journey to Babel,” and the Troyian ambassador is stabbed but survives during the events of “Elaan of Troyius.” Moreover, assignment to unescorted guest quarters hardly guaranteed the peaceable comportment of the occupants. In “Let That Be Your Last Battlefield,” Kirk assigns Bele, the chief officer of the planet Cheron’s Commission on Political Traitors, to unescorted guest quarters, but Bele is markedly reluctant to stay put. Under these circumstances, inventing escorted guest quarters seemed— to coin a phrase—only logical.

Spock’s duty station is adjacent to Uhura’s. The assistance he offers her during the ion storm—namely, helping her up and putting her back in her chair—happened during the events of “Tomorrow Is Yesterday.”

The _Enterprise_ computer serves as a de facto polygraph machine in both “Mudd’s Women” and “Wolf in the Fold.” McCoy attempts the use of a psycho-tricorder in “Wolf in the Fold,” but the test is aborted when the technician is murdered.

**Lesser-known characters**

Palmer is Uhura’s relief communications officer; she appears in “The Doomsday Machine” and “The Way to Eden.” Finnegan, formerly Kirk’s Academy nemesis, makes his appearance in “Shore Leave.” Lieutenant Areel Shaw is the prosecuting attorney in “Court-Martial.”

Spock, Kirk, and McCoy meet the many-times-reincarnated Flint in “Requiem for Methuselah.” Although Flint does not change his homeworld, other parallels to his story can be seen in this novella.

For the portrayal of Saavik, I am indebted both to Carolyn Clowes, author of [_The Pandora Principle_](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000FC0SLY/ref=pd_lpo_k2_dp_sr_1?pf_rd_p=1535523722&pf_rd_s=lpo-top-stripe-1&pf_rd_t=201&pf_rd_i=0671658158&pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_r=0YJHXE2XHH2557Q9SRV0) (Pocket Books, Simon & Schuster, 1990), and to Josepha Sherman and Susan Shwartz, authors of [Vulcan’s Heart](http://memory-beta.wikia.com/wiki/Vulcan's_Heart) (Pocket Books, Simon & Schuster, 1999).

**Episodes referenced (all are from _The Original Series_ unless otherwise noted)**

“All Our Yesterdays” (Season 3)

“Amok Time” (Season 2)

“And the Children Shall Lead” (Season 3)

“Assignment: Earth” (Season 2)

“Balance of Terror” (Season 1)

“Blood Fever” ( _Voyager_ , Season 3)

“Bread and Circuses” (Season 2)

“Broken Link” ( _Deep Space Nine_ )

“Charlie X” (Season 1)

“The City on the Edge of Forever” (Season 1)

“The Conscience of the King” (Season 1)

“The Corbomite Maneuver” (Season 1)

“Court-Martial” (Season 1)

“Daedalus” ( _Enterprise_ )

“Day of the Dove” (Season 3)

“The Deadly Years” (Season 2)

“The Devil in the Dark” (Season 1)

“The Doomsday Machine” (Season 2)

“Elaan of Troyius” (Season 3)

“Errand of Mercy” (Season 1)

“The _Enterprise_ Incident” (Season 3)

“The Gamesters of Triskelion” (Season 2)

“Friday’s Child” (Season 2)

“The House of Quark” ( _Deep Space Nine_ )

“The Immunity Syndrome” (Season 2)

“Journey to Babel” (Season 2)

“Let That Be Your Last Battlefield” (Season 3)

“The Lights of Zetar” (Season 3)

“The Mark of Gideon” (Season 3)

“Metamorphosis” (Season 2)

“Mudd’s Women” (Season 1)

“The Naked Time” (Season 1)

“Obsession” (Season 2)

“Operation: Annihilate!” (Season 1)

“The Paradise Syndrome” (Season 3)

“A Private Little War” (Season 2)

“Requiem for Methuselah” (Season 3)

“Return to Tomorrow” (Season 2)

“Rules of Engagement” ( _Deep Space Nine_ )

“Sarek” ( _The Next Generation_ )

“The Savage Curtain” (Season 3)

“Shore Leave” (Season 1)

“Sons of Mogh” ( _Deep Space Nine_ )

“This Side of Paradise” (Season 1)

“The Tholian Web” (Season 3)

“Tomorrow Is Yesterday” (Season 1)

“The Trouble with Tribbles” (Season 2)

“The Way to Eden” (Season 3)

“Who Mourns for Adonais?” (Season 2)

“Wolf in the Fold” (Season 2)

_The Wrath of Khan_ ( _Star Trek II,_ motion picture)

 

**Meld**

Know what I know, what your touch bids me tell

You through the silent stillness of our minds:

Beyond Antares, beyond the stars that sail

Alight on time’s great river where it winds,

 

There is a place to which I cannot go,

Must not return, lest I revive the pain

That took a home and made of it a foe,

And all for naught, for naught there was to gain.

 

But you, dear Spock, you do not judge me ill

For what I had to do to end the strife.

For you and I, we share a stalwart’s will

To do what must be done to save a life.

 

Your hands sculpt love. You do not call it so,

But mind to mind speaks truth; we love, we know.

 

© username LadyTAnna

Aug. 7–15, 2015


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